




























1 







I 


THE STORY OF 


AN AFRICAN FARM. 


A NOVEL. 


By RALPH IRON. 

(olive SCHREINER.) 


NEW YORK: 

A. L. BURT, PUBLISHER. 



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PKEFACE. 


; lAVE to thank cordially the public and my critics for 
the . eception they have given this little book. 

'j 'aling with a subject that is far removed from the 
rou:id of English daily life, it of necessity lacks the 
chiirr' that hangs about the ideal representation of 
fjmd i,r things, and its reception has therefore been the 
0^3 kindly. 

A word of explanation is necessary. Two strangers 
appear on the scene, and some have fancied that in the 
second they have again the first, who returns in a new 
guise. Why this should be we cannot tell; unless there 
is a feeling that a man should not appear upon the 
scene, and then disappear, leaving behind him no more 
substantial trace than a mere book; that he should return 
later on as husband or lover, to fill some more important 
part than that of the mere stimulator of thought. 

Human life may be painted according to two methods. 
There is the stage method. According to that each 
character is duly marshaled at first, and ticketed; we 
know with an immutable certainty that at the right 
crises each one will reappear and act his part, and when 
the curtain falls all will stand before it bowing. There 
is a sense of satisfaction in this, and of completeness. 
But there is another method — the method of the life we 
all lead. Here nothing can be prophesied. There is a 
strange coming and going of feet. Men appear, act and 
re-act upon each other, and pass away. When the crisis 
comes the man who would fit it does not return. When 


IV 


PREFACE. 


the curtain falls no one is ready. When the footlights 
are brightest they are blown out; and what the name of 
the play is no one knows. If there sits a spectator who 
knows, he sits so high that the players in the gaslight 
cannot hear his breathing. Life may be painted accord- 
ing to either method; but the methods are different. 
The canons of criticism that bear upon the one cut 
cruelly upon the other. 

It has been suggested by a kind critic that he would 
better have liked the little book if it had been a history 
of wild adventure; of cattle driven into inaccessible 
‘^kranzes” by Bushmen; “of encounters with ravening 
lions, and hairbreadth escapes.’^ This could not be. 
Such works are best written in Piccadilly or in the 
Strand: there the gifts of the creative imagination, un- 
trammeled by contact with any fact, may spread their 
wings. 

But, should one sit down to paint the scenes among 
which he has grown, he will find that the facts creep in 
upon him. Those brilliant phases and shapes which the 
imagination sees in far-off lands are not for him to por- 
tray. Sadly he must squeeze the color from his brush, 
and dip it into the gray pigments around him. He must 
paint what lies before him. 

R. IRON. 

“We must see the first images which the external world casts 
upon the dark mirror of his mind; or must hear the first words 
which awaken the sleeping powers of thought, and stand by his 
earliest efforts, if we would understand the prejudices, the habits, 
and the passions that will rule his life. The entire man is, so to 
speak, to be found in the cradle of the child.” 

Alexis de Tocqueville. 


GLOSSARY. 


Several Dutch and Colonial words occurring in this 
work, the subjoined Glossary is given, explaining 
the principal. 

Benaauwdheit — Indigestion. 


Brakje 

— A little cur of low degree. 

BuUong 

— Dried meat. 

In-span 

— To harness. 

Kapje 

— A sunbonnet. 

Karroo 

— The wide sandy plains in some parts of 
South Africa. 

Karroo-hushes — The bushes that take the place of 
grass on these plains. 

Kartel 

— The wooden-bed fastened in an ox- 
wagon. 

Kopje 

— A small hillock, or ‘Tittle head.” 

Kraal 

— The space surrounded by a stone wall 
or hedged with thorn branches into 
which sheep or cattle are driven at 
night. 

Mealies 

— Indian corn. 

Meerkat 

— A small weazel-like animal. 

Meiboss 

— Preserved and dried apricots. 

Nachtmaal 

— The Lord’s Supper. 

Out-span 

— To unharness, or a place in the field 
where one unharnesses. 

Predikant 

— Parson. 

Reim 

— Leather rope. 


VI 


GLOSSARY. 


Schlecht 

— Bad. 


Sloot 

— A dry watercourse. 


Spook 

— A ghost. 


Stamp-Uoch 

— A wooden block, hollowed out. 

in 


which mealies are' placed to 
pounded before being cooked. 

be 

Upsitting 

— In Boer courtship the man and girl 


are supposed to sit up together the 
whole night. 

Velschoon 

— Shoes of undressed leather. 



CONTENTS 


PAKT I. 

CHAPTER I. PAGE 

Shadows from Child Life 1 

CHAPTER II. 

Plans and Bushman-Paintings 11 

CHAPTER III. 

I was a Stranger, and Ye Took Me In 19 

CHAPTER IV. 

Blessed is He that Believeth 28 

CHAPTER V. 

Sunday Services 33 

CHAPTER VI. 

Bonaparte Blenkins makes His Nest 49 

CHAPTER VII. 

He sets His Trap 56 

CHAPTER VIII. 

He Catches the Old Bird 61 

CHAPTER IX. 

He sees a Ghost 74 

CHAPTER X. 

He shows His Teeth 83 

CHAPTER XI. 

He Snaps i 87 

CHAPTER XII. • 

He Bites 96 

CHAPTER XIII. 

He makes Love 110 


CONTENTS. 


viii 

PAKT II. 

CHAPTER I. page 

Times and Seasons 118 

CHAPTER II. 

Waldo’s Stranger 139 

CHAPTER III. 

Gregory Rose finds his Affinity 163 

CHAPTER IV. 

Lyndall 174 

CHAPTER V. 

Tant’ Sannie holds an Upsitting, and Gregory writes a Letter. . . 195 
CHAPTER VI. 

A Boer- Wedding 204 

CHAPTER VII. 

Waldo Goes Out to Taste Life, and Em stays at Home and Tastes it 219 
CHAPTER VIII. 

The Kopje 224 

CHAPTER IX. 

LyndalTs Stranger 235 

CHAPTER X. 

Gregory Rose has an Idea 246 

CHAPTER XI. 

An Unfinished Letter 251 

CHAPTER XII. 

Gregory’s Womanhood 270 

CHAPTER XIII. 

Dreams 296 

CHAPTER XIV. 

Waldo Goes Out to Sit in the Sunshine.. 304 


CONTENTS. 


IX 


DREAMS. 


PAGE 

The Lost Joy 316 

The Hunter 320 

N. 

The Gardens of Pleasure 331 

In a Far-off World 332 

Three Dreams in a Desert 335 

A Dream of Wild Bees 343 

In a Ruined Chapel 347 

Life’s Gifts 353 ^ 

The Artist’s Secret 353 

“I Thought I Stood.” 354 

The Sunlight Lay Across My Bed 357 


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V 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM 


PAET I. 


CHAPTER I. 

SHADOWS FROM CHILD-LIFE. 

The Watch. 

The full African moon poured down its light from the 
blue sky into the wide, lonely plain. The dry, sandy 
earth, with its coating of stunted “karroo’^ bushes a few 
inches high, the low hills that skirted the plain, the milk- 
bushes with their long finger-like leaves, all were touched 
by a weird and an almost oppressive beauty as they lay in 
the white light. 

In one spot only was the solemn monotony of the plain 
broken. Near the center a small solitary “kopje’’ rose. 
Alone it lay there, a heap of round ironstones piled one 
upon another, as over some giant’s grave. Here and 
there a few tufts of grass or small succulent plants had 
sprung up among its stones, and on the very summit a 
clump of prickly pears lifted their thorny arms, and re- 
flected, as from mirrors, the moonlight on their broad 
fleshy leaves. At the foot of the “kopje” lay the home- 
stead. First, the stone-walled “sheep kraals” and 
Kaffer huts; beyond them the dwelling-house — a square, 
red-brick building with thatched roof. Even on its bare 
red walls, and the wooden ladder that led up to the loft, 
the moonlight cast a kind of dreamy beauty, and quite 


2 


THE STORY OF AH AFRICAN FARM. 


etherealized the low brick wall that ran before the house, 
and which inclosed a bare patch of sand and two strag- 
gling sunflowers. On the zinc roof of the great open 
wagon-house, on the roofs of the outbuildings that jutted 
from its side, the moonlight glinted with a quite peculiar 
brightness, till it seemed that every rib in the metal was 
of burnished silver. 

Sleep ruled everywhere, and the homestead was not 
less quiet than the solitary plain. 

In the farmhouse, on her great wooden bedstead, 
Tant’ Sannie, the Boer-woman, rolled heavily in her 
sleep. 

She had gone to bed, as she always did, in her clothes, 
and the night was warm and the room close, and she 
dreamed bad dreams. Not of the ghosts and devils that 
so haunted her waking thoughts; not of her second hus- 
band, the consumptive Englishman, whose grave lay away 
beyond the ostrich-camps, nor of her flrst, the young 
Boer; but only of the sheep’s trotters she had eaten for 
supper that night. She dreamed that one stuck fast in 
her throat, and she rolled her huge form from side to 
side, and snorted horribly. 

In the next room, where the maid had forgotten to 
close the shutter, the white moonlight fell in, in a flood, 
and made it light as day. There were two small beds 
against the wall. In one lay a yellow-haired child, with 
a low forehead and a face of freckles; but the loving 
moonlight hid defects here as elsewhere, and showed 
only the innocent face of a child in its first sweet sleep. 

The figure in the companion bed belonged of right to 
the moonlight, for it was of quite elfin-like beauty. The 
child had dropped her cover on the floor, and the moon- 
light looked in at the naked little limbs. Presently she 
opened her eyes and looked at the moonlight that was 
bathing her. 


TEE 8T0R T OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


3 


“Em!” she called to the sleeper in the other bed; but 
received no answer. Then she drew the cover from the 
floor, turned her pillow, and pulling the sheet over her 
head, went to sleep again. 

Only in one of the outbuildings that jutted from the 
wagon-house there was some one who was not asleep. 

The room was dark; door and shutter were closed; not 
a ray of light entered anywhere. The German overseer, 
to whom the room belonged, lay sleeping soundly on his 
bed in the corner, his great arms folded, and his bushy 
gray and black heard rising and falling on his breast. 
But one in the room was not asleep. Two large eyes 
looked about in the darkness, and two small hands were 
smoothing the patchwork quilt. The hoy, who slept on 
a box under the window, had just awakened from his 
first sleep. He drew the quilt up to his chin, so that 
little peered above it hut a great head of silky black 
curls and the two black eyes. He stared about in the 
darkness. Nothing was visible, not even the outline of 
one worm-eaten rafter, nor of the deal table, on which 
lay the Bible from which his father had read before they 
went to bed. No one could tell where the tool-box was, 
and where the fireplace. There was something very im- 
pressive to the child in the complete darkness. 

At the head of his father’s bed hung a great silver 
hunting watch. It ticked loudly. The boy listened to 
it, and began mechanically to count. Tick — tick — one, 
two, three, four! He lost count presently, and only 
listened. Tick — tick — tick — tick! 

It never waited; it went on inexorably; and every time 
it ticked a man died ! He raised himself a little on his 
elbow and listened. He wished it would leave off. 

How many times had it ticked since he came to lie 
down? A thousand times, a million times, perhaps. 

He tried to count again, and sat up to listen better. 


4 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


Dying, dying, dying!” said the watch; ‘‘dying, dying, 
dying!” 

He heard it distinctly. Where were they going to, all 
those people? 

He lay down quickly, and pulled the covei up over his 
head: but presently the silky curls reappeared. 

“Dying, dying, dying!” said the watch; “dying, dying, 
dying!” 

He thought of the words his father had read that 
evening: ‘‘'‘Foricide is the gate, and broad is the way, that 
leadeth to destruction, and many there be which go in 
thereat.^’ 

“Many, many, many!” said the watch. 

Because strait is the gate, and narroio is the way, that 
leadeth unto life, and few there be that find it.” 

“Few, few, few!” said the watch. 

The boy lay with his eyes wide open. He saw before 
him a long steam of people, a great dark multitude, 
that moved in one direction; then they came to the dark 
edge of the world and went over. He saw them passing 
on before him, and there was nothing that could stop 
them. He thought of how that stream had rolled on 
through all the long ages of the past — how the old 
Greeks and Romans had gone over; the countless mil- 
lions of China and India, they were going over now. 
Since he had come to bed, how many had gone! 

And the watch said, “Eternity, eternity, eternity!” 

“Stop them! stop them!” cried the child. 

And all the while the watch kept ticking on; just like 
God’s will, that never changes or alters, you may do 
what you please. 

Great beads of perspiration stood on the boy’s forehead. 
He climbed out of bed and lay with his face turned to 
the mud floor. 

“Oh, God, God! save them!” he cried in agony. 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


5 


‘‘Only some; only a few! Only for each moment I am 
praying here one!’" He folded his little hands upon his 
head. “God! God! save them!” 

He groveled on the floor. 

Oh, the long, long ages of the past, in which they 
had gone over! Oh, the long, long future, in which they 
would pass away! Oh, God! the long, long, long eternity, 
which has no end ! 

The child wept, and crept closer to the ground. 


, The Sacrifice. 

The farm by daylight was not as the farm by moon- 
light. The plain was a weary flat of loose red sand, 
sparsely covered by dry karroo bushes, that cracked 
beneath the tread like tinder, and showed the red earth 
everywhere. Here and there a milk-bush lifted its pale- 
colored rods, and in every direction the ants and beetles 
ran about in the blazin'g sand. The red walls of the 
farmhouse, the zinc roofs of the outbuildings, the stone 
walls of the “kraals,” all reflected the flerce sunlight, 
till the eye ached and blenched. No tree or shrub was 
to he seen far or near. The two sunflowers that stood 
before the door, outstared by the sun, drooped their 
brazen faces to the sand; and the little cicada-like insects 
cried aloud among the stones of the “kopje.” 

The Boer-woman, seen by daylight, was even less 
lovely than when, in bed, she rolled and dreamed. She 
sat on a chair in the great front room, with her feet on a 
wooden stove, and wiped her flat face with the corner of 
her apron, and drank coffee, and in Cape Dutch swore 
that the beloved weather was damned. Less lovely, too, 
by daylight was the dead Englishman’s child, her little 
stepdaughter, upon whose freckles and low, wrinkled 
forehead the sunlight had no mercy. 


6 


TEE STOUT OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


‘‘Lyndall/’ the child said to her little orphan cousin, 
who sat with her on the floor threading beads, ‘‘how is it 
your beads never fall off your needle?’^ 

“I try,’’ said the little one gravely, moistening her 
tiny Anger. “That is why.” 

The overseer, seen by daylight, was a huge German, 
wearing a shabby suit, and with a childish habit of rub- 
bing his hands and nodding his head prodigiously when 
pleased at anything. He stood out at the kraals in the 
blazing sun, explaining to two Kaffer boys the approach- 
ing end of the world. The boys, as they cut the cakes 
of dung, winked at each other, and worked as slowly as 
they possibly could; but the German never saw it. 

Away, beyond the “kopje,” Waldo his son herded the 
ewes and lambs — a small and dusty herd — powdered all 
over from head to foot with red sand, wearing a ragged 
coat and shoes of undressed leather, through whose 
holes the toes looked out. His hat was too large, and 
had sunk down to his eyes, concealing completely the 
silky black curls. It was a curious small figure. His 
flock gave him little trouble. It was too hot for them to 
move far; they gathered round every little milk-bush, as 
though they hoped to find shade, and stood there motion- 
less in clumps. He himself crept under a shelving rock 
that lay at the foot of the “kopje,” stretched himself on 
his stomach, and waved his dilapidated little shoes in the 
air. 

Soon, from the blue bag where he kept his dinner, he 
produced a fragment of slate, an arithmetic, and a pen- 
cil. Proceeding to put down a sum with solemn and 
earnest demeanor, he began to add it up aloud: “Six and 
two is eight — and four is twelve — and two is fourteen — 
and four is eighteen.” Here he paused. “And four is 
eighteen — and — four — is — eighteen.” The last was very 
much drawled. Slowly the pencil slipped from his 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


7 


fingers, and the slate followed it into the sand. For 
awhile he lay motionless, then began muttering to him- 
self, folded his little arms, laid his head down upon 
them, and might have been asleep, but for the muttering 
sound that from time to time proceeded from him. A 
curious old ewe came to sniff at him; hut it was long be- 
fore he raised his head. When he did he looked at the 
far-off hills with his heavy eyes. . 

‘‘Ye shall receive — ye shall receive — shall, shall, shall, 
he muttered. 

He sat up then. Slowly the dullness and heaviness 
melted from his face; it became radiant. Midday had 
come now, and the sun’s rays were poured down verti- 
cally; the earth throbbed before the eye. 

The boy stood up quickly, and cleared a small space 
from the bushed which covered it. Looking carefully, he 
found twelve small stones of somewhat the same size; 
kneeling down, he arranged them carefully on the 
cleared space in a square pile, in shape like an altar. 
Then he walked to the bag where his dinner was kept; in 
it was a mutton chop and a large slice of brown bread. 
The boy took them out and turned the bread over in his 
hand, deeply considering it. Finally he threw it away 
and walked to the altar with the meat, and laid it down 
on the stones. Close by in the red sand he knelt down. 
Sure, never since the beginning of the world was there 
so ragged and so small a priest. He took off his great 
hat and placed it solemnly on the ground, then closed 
his eyes and folded his hands. He prayed aloud: 

“Oh, God, my Father, I have made Thee a sacrifice. 
I have only twopence, so I cannot buy a lamb. If the 
lambs were mine I would give Thee one; but now I have 
only this meat; it is my dinner meat. Please, my 
Father, send fire down from heaven to burn it. Thou 
hast said, Whosoever shall say unto this mountain. Be 


8 


THE STOUT OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


thou cast into the sea, nothing doubting, it shall be done. 
I ask for the sake of Jesus Christ. Amen.’^ 

He knelt down with his face upon the ground, and he 
folded his hands upon his curls. The fierce sun poured 
down its heat upon his head and upon his altar. When 
he looked up he knew what he should see — the glory of 
God! For fear his very heart stood still, his breath came 
heavily; he was half-suffocated. He dared not look up. 
Then at last he raised himself. Above him was the quiet 
blue sky, about him the red earth; there were the clumps 
of silent ewes and his altar — that was all. 

He looked up — nothing broke the intense stillness of 
the blue overhead. He looked round in astonishment, 
then he bowed again, and this time longer than before. 

When he raised himself the second time all was un- 
altered. Only the sun had melted the fat of the little 
mutton-chop, and it ran down upon the stones. 

Then, the third time he bowed himself. When at last 
he looked up, some ants had come to the meat on the 
altar. He stood up and drove them away. Then he put 
his hat on his hot curls, and sat in the shade. He 
clasped his hands about his knees. He sat to watch what 
would come to pass. The glory of the Lord God Al- 
mighty! He knew he should see it. 

‘‘My dear God is trying me,” he said; and he sat there 
through the fierce heat of the afternoon. Still he watched 
and waited when the sun began to slope, and when it 
neared the horizon and the sheep began to cast long 
shadows across the karroo, he still sat there. He hoped 
when the first rays touched the hills till the sun dipped 
lehind them and was gone. Then he called his ewes 
together, and broke down the altar, and threw the meat 
far, far away into the field. 

He walked home behind his flock. His heart was 
heavy. He reasoned so: “God cannot lie. I had faith. 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


9 


No fire came. I am like Cain — I am not His. He will 
not hear my prayer. God hates me.^’ 

The hoy’s heart was heavy. When he reached the 
“kraal” gate the two girls met him. 

“Come,” said the yellow-haired Em, “let us play 
‘coop.’ There is still time before it gets quite dark. 
You, Waldo, go and hide on the ‘kopje;’ Lyndall and I 
will shut eyes here, and we will not look.” 

The girls hid their faces in the stone wall of the sheep- 
kraal, and the boy clambered halfway up the “kopje.” 
He crouched down between two stones and gave the call. 
Just then the milk-herd came walking out of the cow- 
kraal with two pails. He was an ill-looking Kaffer. 

“Ah!” thought the boy, “perhaps he will die to-night, 
and go to hell! I must pray for him, I must pray!” 

Then he thought: “Where am I going to?” and he 
prayed desperately. 

“Ah! this is not right at all,” little Em said, peeping 
between the stones, and finding him in a very curious 
posture. “What are you doing, Waldo? It is not the 
play, you know. You should run out when we come to 
the white stone. Ah, you do not play nicely.” 

“I — I will play nicely now,” said the boy, coming out 
and standing sheepishly before them; “I — I only forgot; 
I will play now.” 

“He has been to sleep,” said freckled Em. 

“No,” said beautiful little Lyndall, looking curiously 
at him; “he has been crying.” 

She never made a mistake. 


The Confession, 

One night, two years after, the boy sat alone on the 
“kopje.” He had crept softly from his father’s room 
and come there. He often did, because, when he prayed 


10 


THE STORY OF AH AFRICAN FARM. 


or cried aloud, his father might awake and hear him; and 
none knew his great sorrow, and none knew his grief, 
hut he himself, and he buried them deep in his heart. 

He turned up the brim of his great hat and looked at 
the moon, hut most at the leaves of the prickly pear that 
grew just before him. They glinted, and glinted, and 
glinted, just like his own heart — cold, so hard, and very 
wicked. His physical heart had pain also; it seemed full 
of little hits of glass, that hurt. He had sat there for 
half an hour, and he dared not go hack to the close 
house. 

He felt horribly lonely. There was not one thing so 
wicked as he in all the world, and he knew it. He folded 
his arms and began to cry — not aloud; he sobbed without 
making any sound, and his tears left scorched marks 
where they fell. He could not pray; he had prayed 
night and day for so many months; and to-night he 
could not pray. When he left off crying he held his 
aching head with his brown hands. If one might have 
gone up to him and touched him kindly; poor, ugly 
little thing! Perhaps his heart was almost broken. 

With his swollen eyes he sat there on a flat stone at 
the very top of the “kopje;’^ and the tree, with every 
one of its wicked leaves, blinked, and blinked, and 
blinked at him. Presently he began to cry again, and 
then stopped his crying to look at it. He was quiet for 
a long while, then he knelt up slowly and bent forward. 
There was a secret he had carried in his heart for a year. 
He had not dared to look at it; he had not whispered it 
to himself; but for a year he had carried it. ‘H hate 
God!’’ he said. The wind took the words and ran away 
with them, among the stones, and through the leaves of 
the prickly pear. He thought it died away half-down 
the ‘‘kopje.” He had told it now! 

“I love Jesus Christ, but I hate God.” 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


11 


The wind carried away that sound as it had done the 
first. Then he got up and buttoned his old coat about 
him. He knew he was certainly lost now; he did not 
care. If half the world were to be lost, why not he too? 
He would not pray for mercy any more. Better so — 
better to know certainly. It was ended now. Better so. 

He began scrambling down the sides of the “kopje’’ 
to go home. 

Better so! But oh, the loneliness, the agonized pain! 
for that night, and for nights on nights to come! The 
anguish that sleeps all day on the heart like a heavy 
worm, and wakes up at night to feed! 

There are some of us who in after years say to Fate, 
“Now deal us your hardest blow, give us what you will; 
but let us never again suffer as we suffered when we were 
children.” 

The barb in the arrow of childhood’s suffering is this: 
its intense loneliness, its intense agony. 


CHAPTER II. 

PLANS AND BUSHMAN-PAINTINGS. 

At last came the year of the great drought, the year of 
eighteen-sixty-two. From end to end of the land the 
earth cried for water. Man and beast turned their eyes 
to the pitiless sky, that like the roof of some brazen oven 
arched overhead. On the farm, day after day, month 
after month, the water in the dams fell lower and lower; 
the sheep died in the fields; the cattle, scarcely able to 
crawl, tottered as they moved from spot to spot in search 
of food. Week after week, month after month, the sun 
looked down from the cloudless sky, till the karroo bu*shes 
were leafless sticks, broken into the earth, and the earth 
itself was naked and bare; and only the milk-bushes, like 


12 


THE STORY OF AH AFRICAN FARM. 


old hags, pointed their shriveled fingers heavenward, 
praying for the rain that never came. 

It was on an afternoon of a long day in that thirsty 
summer that on the side of the “kopje” furthest Jrom 
the homestead the two girls sat. They were somewhat 
grown since the days when they played hide-and-seek 
there, hut they were mere children still. 

Their dress was of dark, coarse stuff; their common blue 
pinafores reached to their ankles, and on their feet they 
wore home-made “vel-schoen.” 

They sat under a shelving rock, on the surface of 
which were still visible some old Bushman-paintings, 
their red and black pigments having been preserved 
through long years from wind and rain by the overhang- 
ing ledge; grotesque oxen, elephants, rhinoceroses, and 
a one-horned beast, such as no man ever has seen or ever 
shall. 

The girls sat with their backs to the paintings. In 
their laps were a few fern and ice-plant leaves, which 
by dint of much searching they had gathered under the 
rocks. 

Em took off her big brown kappje and began vigorously 
to fan her red face with it; but her companion bent low 
over the leaves in her lap, and at last took up an ice- 
plant leaf and fastened it on to the front of her blue 
pinafore with a pin. 

“Diamonds must look as these drops do,” she said, 
carefully bending over the leaf, and crushing one crystal 
drop with her delicate little nail. “When I,” she said, 
“am grown up, I shall wear real diamonds, exactly like 
these, in my hair.” 

Her companion opened her eyes and wrinkled her low 
forehead. 

“Where will you find them, Lyndall? The stones are 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


13 


only crystals that we picked up yesterday. Old Otto 
says so.^^ 

“And you think that I am going to stay always?” 

The lip trembled scornfully. 

“Ah, no,” said her companion. “T suppose some day 
we shall go somewhere; but now we are only twelve, and 
we cannot marry till we are seventeen. Four years, five 
— that is a long time to wait. And we might not have 
diamonds if we did marry.” 

“And you think that I am going to stay here till then?” 

“Well, where are you going?” asked her companion. 

The girl crushed an ice-plant leaf between her fingers. 

“Taut’ Sannie is a miserable old woman,” she said. 
“Your father married her when he was dying, because 
he thought she would take better care of the farm, and 
of us, than an English woman. He said we should be 
taught and sent to school. Now she saves every farthing 
for herself, buys us not even one old book. She does 
not ill-use us — why? Because she is afraid of your 
father’s ghost. Only this morning she told her Hotten- 
tot that she would have beaten you for breaking the 
plate, but that three nights ago she heard a rustling and 
a grunting behind the pantry door, and knew it was your 
father coming to ‘spook’ her. She is a miserable old 
woman,” said the girl, throwing the leaf from her; “but 
I intend to go to school.” 

“And if she won’t let you?” 

“I shall make her.” 

“How?” 

The child took not the slightest notice of the last 
question, and folded her small arms across her knees. 

“But why do you want to go, Lyndall?” 

“There is nothing helps in this world,” said the child 
slowly, “but to be very wise, and to know everything— 
to be clever.” 


14 


THE STORY OF AH AFRICAN FARM. 


^^But I should not like to go to school!” persisted the 
small freckled face. 

“And you do not need to. When you are seventeen 
this Boer-woman will go; you will have this farm and 
everything that is upon it for your own; but I,” said 
Lyndall, “will have nothing. I must learn.” 

“Oh, Lyndall! / will give you some of my sheep,” 
said Em, with a sudden hurst of pitying generosity. 

“I do not want your sheep,” said the girl slowly; “I 
want things of my own. When I am grown up,” she 
added, the flush on her delicate features deepening at 
every word, “there will be nothing that I do not know. 
I shall be rich, very rich; and I shall wear not only for 
best, but every day, a pure white silk, and little rose- 
buds, like the lady in Tant’ Sannie’s bedroom, and my 
petticoats will be embroidered, not only at the bottom, 
but all through.” 

The lady in Tant’ Sannie’s bedroom was a gorgeous 
creature from a fashion-sheet, which the Boer-woman, 
somewhere obtaining, had pasted up at the foot of her 
bed, to be profoundly admired by the children. 

“It would be very nice,” said Em; but it seemed a 
dream of quite too transcendent a glory ever to be 
realized. 

At this instant there appeared at the foot of the 
“kopje” two figures — the one, a dog, white and sleek, 
one yellow ear hanging down over his left eye; the other, 
his master, a lad of fourteen, and no other than the hoy 
Waldo, grown into a heavy, slouching youth of fourteen. 
The dog mounted the “kopje” quickly, his master fol- 
lowed slowly. He wore an aged jacket much too large 
for him, and rolled up at the wrists, and, as of old, a 
pair of dilapidated “vel-schoens” and a felt hat. He 
stood before the two girls at last. 

“What have you been doing to-day?” asked Lyndall, 
lifting her eyes to his face. 


THE STOB Y OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


15 


‘‘Looking after ewes and lambs below the dam. Here!’’ 
he said, holding out his hand awkwardly, “I brought 
them for you.” 

There were a few green blades of tender grass. 

“Where did you find them?” 

“On the dam wall.” 

She fastened them beside the leaf on her blue pinafore. 

“They look nice there,” said the boy, awkwardly rub- 
bing his great hands and watching her. 

“Yes; but the pinafore spoils it all; it is not pretty.” 

He looked at it closely. 

“Yes, the squares are ugly; but it looks nice upon you 
— beautiful.” 

He now stood silent before them, his great hands 
hanging loosely at either side. 

“Some one has come to-day,” he mumbled out sud- 
denly, when the idea struck him. 

“Who?” asked both girls. 

“An Englishman on foot.” 

“What does he look like?” asked Em. 

“I did not notice; but he has a very large nose,” said 
the boy slowly. “He asked the way to the house.” 

“Didn’t he tell you his name?” 

“Yes — Bonaparte Blenkins.” 

“Bonaparte!” said Em, “why that is like the reel 
Hottentot Hans plays on the violin: 

“ ‘Bonaparte, Bonaparte, my wife is sick; 

In tbe middle of the week, but Sundays not, 

I give her rice and beans for soup ’ 

It is a funny name.” 

“There was a living man called Bonaparte once,” said 
she of the great eyes. 

“Ah, yes, I know,” said Em — “the poor prophet whom 
the lions ate. I am always so sorry for him.” 

Her companion cast a quiet glance upon her. 


16 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


‘^He was the greatest man who ever lived/’ she said, 
‘‘the man I like best.” 

“And what did he do?” asked Em, conscious that she 
had made a mistake, and that her prophet was not the 
man. 

“He was one man, only one,” said her little compan- 
ion slowly, “yet all the people in the world feared him. 
He was not born great, he was common as we are; yet he 
was master of the world at last. Once he was only a 
little child, then he was a lieutenant, then he was gen- 
eral, then he was an emperor. When he said a thing to 
himself he never forgot it. He waited and waited and 
waited, and it came at last.” 

“He must have been very happy,” said Em. 

“I do not know,” said Lyndall; “but he had what he 
said he would have, and that is better than being happy. 
He was their master, and all the people were white with 
fear of him. They joined together to fight him. He 
was one and they were many, and they got him down at 
last. They were like the wild-cats when their teeth are 
fast in a great dog, like cowardly wild-cats,” said the 
child, “they would not let him go. There were many; 
he was only one. They sent him to an island on the sea, 
a lonely island, and kept him there fast. He was one 
man, and they were many, and they were terrified at him. 
It was glorious!” said the child. 

“And what then?” said Em. 

“Then he was alone there in that island with men to 
watch him always,” said her companion, slowly and 
quietly, “and in the long lonely nights he used to lie 
awake and think of the things he had done in the old 
days, and the things he would do if they let him go 
again. In the day when he walked near the shore it 
seemed to him that the sea all around him was a cold 
chain about his body pressing him to death.” 


THE STORY OF AS AFRICAS FARM. 


17 


‘‘And then?’’ said Em, much interested. 

“He died there in that island; he never got away.” 

“It is rather a nice story,” said Em; “but the end is 
sad.” 

“It is a terrible, hateful ending,” said the little teller 
of the story, leaning forward on her folded arms; “and 
the worst is, it is true. I have noticed,” added the 
child very deliberately, “that it is only the made-up 
stories that end nicely; the true ones all end so.” 

As she spoke the boy’s dark, heavy eyes rested on her 
face. 

“You have read it, have you not?” 

He nodded. “Yes; but the Brown history tells only 
what he did, not what he thought.” 

“It was in the Brown history that I read of him,” said 
the girl; “but I Jcnoiu what he thought. Books do not 
tell everything.” 

“No,” said the boy, slowly drawing nearer to her and 
sitting down at her feet. “What you want to know 
they never tell.” 

Then the children fell into silence, till Doss, the dog, 
growing uneasy at its long continuance, sniffed at one 
and the other, and his master broke forth suddenly: 

“If they could talk, if they could tell us now!” he said, 
moving his hand out over the surrounding objects — 
“then we would know something. This ‘kopje,’ if it 
could tell us how it came here! The ‘Physical Geog- 
raphy’ says,” he went on most rapidly and confusedly, 
“that what were drylands now were once lakes; and what 
I think is this — these low hills were once the shores of a 
lake; this ‘kopje’ is some of the stones that were at the 
bottom, rolled together by the water. But there is this 
— How did the water come to make one heap here alone, 
in the center of the plain?” It was a ponderous ques- 
tion; no one volunteered an answer. “When I was 


18 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


little/’ said the boy, “I always looked at it and won- 
dered, and I thought a great giant was buried under it. 
Now I know the water must have done it; but how? It 
is very wonderful. Did one little stone come first, and 
stop the others as they rolled?” said the boy with ear- 
nestness, in a low voice, more as speaking to himself than 
to them. 

“Oh, Waldo, God put the little ‘kopje’ here,” said 
Em with solemnity. 

“But how did he put it here?” 

“By wanting.” 

“But how did the wanting bring it here?” 

“Because it did.” 

The last words were uttered with the air of one who 
produces a clinching argument. What effect it had on 
the questioner was not evident, for he made no reply, and 
turned away from her. 

Drawing closer to Lyndall’s feet, he said after awhile 
in a low voice: 

“Lyndall, has it never seemed to you that the stones 
were talking with you? Sometimes,” he added in a yet 
lower tone, “I lie under there with my sheep, and it 
seems that the stones are really speaking — speaking of 
the old things, of the time when the strange fishes and 
animals lived that are turned into stone now, and the 
lakes were here; and then of the time when the little 
Bushmen lived here, so small and so ugly, and used to 
sleep in the wild dog holes, and in the ‘sloots,’ and eat 
snakes, and shot the bucks with their poisoned arrows. 
It was one of them, one of these old wild Bushmen, that 
painted those,” said the boy, nodding toward the pic- 
tures — “one who was different from the rest. He did 
not know why, but he wanted to make something beauti- 
ful— he wanted to make something so he'made these. He 
worked hard, very hard, to find the juice to make the 


THSi STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


19 


paint; and then he found this place where the rocks 
hang over, and he painted them. To us they are only 
strange things, that make us laugh; but to him they were 
very beautiful.” 

The children had turned round and looked at the 
pictures. 

‘‘He used to kneel here naked, painting, painting, 
painting; and he wondered at the things he made him- 
self,” said the hoy, rising and moving his hand in deep 
excitement. “Now the Boers have shot them all, so 
that we never see a little yellow face peeping out among 
the stones.” He paused, a dreamy look coming over his 
face. “And the wild bucks have gone, and those days, 
and we are here. But we will be gone soon, and only the 
stones will lie on here, looking at everything like they 
look now. I know that it is I who am thinking,” the 
fellow added slowly, “but it seems as though it were they 
who are talkng. Has it never seemed so to you, Lyndall?” 

“No, it never seems so to me,” she answered. 

The sun had dipped now below the hills, and the boy, 
suddenly remembering the ewes and lambs, started to his 
feet. 

“Let us also go to the house and see who has come,” 
said Em, as the boy shuffled away to rejoin his flock, 
while Doss ran at his heels, snapping at the ends of the 
torn trousers as they fluttered in the wind. 


OHAPTEK III. 

I WAS A STKANGEK, AND YE TOOK ME IN. 

As the two girls rounded the side of the “kopje,” an 
unusual scene presented itself. A' large group was 
gathered at the hack door of the homestead, 

On the doorstep stood the Boer-woman, a hand on 


.20 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


each hip, her face red and fiery, her head nodding 
fiercely. At her feet sat the yellow Hottentot maid, her 
satellite, and around stood the black Kaffer maids, with 
blankets twisted round their half-naked figures. Two, 
who stamped mealies in a wooden block, held the great 
stampers in their hands, and stared stupidly at the object 
of attraction. It certainly was not to look at the old 
German overseer, who stood in the center of the group, 
that they had all gathered together. His salt-and- 
pepper suit, grizzly black beard, and gray eyes were as 
familiar to every one on the farm as the red gables of the 
homestead itself; but beside him stood the stranger, and 
on him all eyes were fixed. Ever and anon the new- 
comer cast a glance over his pendulous red nose to the 
spot where the Boer-woman stood, and smiled faintly. 

‘H’m not a child,’’ cried the Boer-woman, in low Cape 
Dutch, ‘‘and I wasn’t born yesterday. No, by the Lord, 
no! You can’t take me in! My mother didn’t wean me 
on Monday. One wink of my eye and I see the whole 
tiling. I’ll have no tramps sleeping on my farm,” cried 
Tant’ Sannie, blowing. “No, by the devil, no! not 
though he had sixty-times-six red noses.” 

There the German overseer mildly interposed that the 
man was not a tramp, but a highly respectable individual, 
whose horse had died by an accident three days before. 

“Don’t tell me,” cried the Boer-woman; “the man 
isn’t born that can take me in. If he’d had money, 
wouldn’t he have bought a horse? Men who walk are 
thieves, liars, murderers, Rome’s priests, seducers! I see 
the devil in his nose!” cried Tant’ Sannie, shaking her 
fist at him; “and to come walking into the house of this 
Boer’s child and shaking hands as though he came on 
horseback! Oh, no, no!” 

The stranger took off his hat, a tall, battered chimney- 
pot, and disclosed a bald head, at the back of which was 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


21 


a little fringe of curled white hair, and he bowed to Tant’ 
Sannie. 

‘‘What does she remark, my friend?’’ he inquired, 
turning his crosswise looking eyes on the old German. 

The German rubbed his old hands and hesitated. 

“Ah — well — ah — the — Dutch — you know — do not like 
people who walk — in this country — ah!” 

“My dear friend,” said the stranger, laying his hand 
on the German’s arm, “I should have bought myself 
another horse, but crossing, five days ago, a full river, I 
lost my purse — a purse with five hundred pounds in it. 
I spent five days on the bank of the river trying to find 
it — couldn’t. Paid a Kaffer nine pounds to go in and 
look for it at the risk of his life — couldn’t find it.” 

The German would have translated this information, 
but the Boer-woman gave no ear. 

“No, no; he goes to-night. See how he looks at me — 
a poor unprotected female! If he wrongs me, who is to 
do me right?” cried Tant’ Sannie. 

“I think,” said the German in an undertone, “if you 
didn’t look at her quite so much it might be advisable. 
She — ah — she — might — imagine that you liked her too 
well — in fact — ah ” 

“Certainly, my dear friend, certainly,” said the 
stranger, “I shall not look at her.” 

Saying this, he turned his nose full upon a small 
Kafier of two years old. That small naked son of Ham 
became instantly so terrified that he fied to his mother’s 
blanket for protection, howling horribly. 

Upon this the newcomer fixed his eyes pensively on 
the stamp-block, folding his hands on the head of his 
cane. His boots were broken, but he still had the cane 
of a gentleman. 

“You vagabonds se Engelschman!” said Tant’ Sannie, 
looking straight at him. 


22 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FA EM, 


This was a near approach to plain English; but the 
man contemplated the block abstractedly, wholly uncon- 
scious that any antagonism was being displayed toward 
him. 

“You might not be a Scotchman or anything of that 
kind, might you?’’ suggested the German. “It is the 
English that she hates.” 

“My dear friend,” said the stranger, “I am Irish every 
inch of me — father Irish, mother Irish. I’ve not a drop 
of English blood in my veins.” 

“And you might not be married, might you?” per- 
sisted the German. “If you had a wife and children, 
now? Dutch people do not like those who are not 
married.” 

“Ah,” said the stranger, looking tenderly at the block, 
“I have a dear wife and three sweet little children — two 
lovely girls and a noble boy.” 

This information having been conveyed to the Boer- 
woman, she, after some further conversation, appeared 
slightly mollified; but remained firm to her conviction 
that the man’s designs were evil. 

“For, dear Lord!” she cried; “all Englishmen are 
ugly; but was there ever such a red-rag-nosed thing with 
broken boots and crooked eyes before? Take him to 
your room,” she cried to the German; “but all the sin 
he does I lay at your door.” 

The German having told him how matters were ar- 
ranged, the stranger made a profound bow to Tant’ 
Sannie and followed his host, who led the way to his own 
little room. 

“I thought she would come to her better self soon,” 
the German said joyously. “Tanf Sannie is not wholly 
bad, far from it, far.” Then seeing his companion cast 
a furtive glance at him, which he mistook for one of sur- 
prise, he added quickly, “Ah, yes, yes; we are all a 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


23 


primitive people here— not very lofty. We deal not in 
titles. Every one is Tanta and Oom— aunt and uncle. 
This may he my room/’ he said, opening the door. ‘Tt 
is rough, the room is rough; not a palace — not quite. 
But it may be better than the fields, a little better!” 
he said, glancing round at his companion. ‘‘Come in, 
come in. There is something to eat— a mouthful: not 
the fare of emperors or kings; but we do not starve, not 
yet,” he said, rubbing his hands together and looking 
round with a pleased, half-nervous smile on his old face. 

“My friend, my dear friend,” said the stranger, seiz- 
ing him by the hand, “may the Lord bless you, the Lord 
bless and reward you — the God of the fatherless and the 
stranger. But for you I would this night have slept in 
the fields, with the dews of heaven upon my head.” 

Late that evening Lyndall came down to the cabin 
with the German’s rations. Through the tiny square 
window the light streamed forth, and without knocking 
she raised the latch and entered. There was a fire burn- 
ing on the hearth, and it cast its ruddy glow over the 
little dingy room, with its worm-eaten rafters and mud 
floor, and broken whitewashed walls. A curious little 
place, filled with all manner of articles. Next to the fire 
was a great tool-box; beyond that the little bookshelf 
with its well-worn books; beyond that, in the corner, a 
heap of filled and empty grain-bags. From the rafters 
hung down straps, “rBims,” old boots, bits of harness, 
and a string of onions. The bed was in another corner 
covered by a patchwork quilt of faded red lions, and 
divided from the rest of the room by a blue curtain, now 
drawn back. On the mantelshelf was an endless assort- 
ment of little bags and stones; and on the wall hung a 
map of South Germany, with a red line drawn through it 
to show where the German had wandered. This place 
was the one home the girls had known for many a year. 


24 THE STOR Y OF AH AFRICAN FARM, 

The house where Tant’ Sannie lived and ruled was a 
place to sleep in, to eat in, not to be happy in. It was 
in vain she told him they were grown too old to go 
there; every morning and evening found them there. 
Were there not too many golden memories hanging 
about the old place for them to leave it? 

Long winter nights, when they had sat round the fire 
and roasted potatoes, and asked riddles, and the old man 
had told of the little German village, where, fifty years 
before, a little German boy had played at snowballs, and 
had carried home the knitted stockings of a little girl 
who afterward became Waldo’s mother; did they not 
seem to see the German peasant girls walking about 
with their wooden shoes and yellow, braided hair, and 
the little children eating their suppers out of little 
wooden bowls when the good mothers called them in to 
have their milk and potatoes?” 

And were there not yet better times than these ? Moon- 
light nights, when they romped about the door, with 
the old man, yet more a child than any of them, and 
laughed till the old roof of the wagon-house rang? 

Or, best of all, were there, not warm, dark, starlight 
nights, when they sat together on the doorstep, holding 
each other’s hands, singing German hymns, their voices 
rising clear in the still night air — till the German would 
draw away his hand suddenly to wipe quickly a tear the 
children must not see? Would they not sit looking up 
at the stars and talking of them — of the dear Southern 
Cross, red, fiery Mars, Orion, with his belt, and the 
Seven Mysterious Sisters — and fall to speculating over 
them? How old are they? Who dwelt in them? And 
the old German would say that perhaps the souls we 
loved lived in them; there, in that little twinkling point 
was perhaps the little girl whose stockings he had carried 
home; and the children would look up at it lovingly, and 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


25 


call it ‘‘Uncle Otto’s star.” Then they would fall to 
deeper speculations — of the times and seasons wherein 
the heavens shall he rolled together as a scroll, and the 
stars shall fall as a fig-tree casteth her untimely figs, and 
there shall be time no longer: “when the Son of man 
shall come in His glory, and all His holy angels with 
Him.” In lower and lower tones they would talk, till at 
last they fell into whispers; then they would wish good- 
night softly, and walk home hushed and quiet. 

To-night, when Lyndall looked in, Waldo sat before 
the fire watching a pot which simmered there, with his 
slate and pencil in his hand; his father sat at the table 
buried in the columns of a three-weeks old newspaper; 
and the stranger lay stretched on the bed in the corner, 
fast asleep, his mouth open, his great limbs stretched out 
loosely, betokening much weariness. The girl put the 
rations down upon the table, snuffed the candle, and 
stood looking at the figure on the bed. 

“Uncle Otto,” she said presently, laying her hand 
down on the newspaper, and causing the old German to 
look up over his glasses, “how long did that man say he 
had been walking?” 

“Since this morning, poor fellow! A gentleman — not 
accustomed to walking — horse died — poor fellow!” said 
the German, pushing out his lip and glancing commiser- 
atingly over his spectacles in the direction of the bed 
where the stranger lay, with his flabby double chin, and 
broken boots through which the flesh shone. 

“And do you believe him. Uncle Otto?” 

“Believe him? why of course I do. He himself told 
me the story three times distinctly.” 

“If,” said the girl slowly, “he had walked for only one 
day his boots would not have looked so; and if ” 

“^/” said the German, starting up in his chair, irri- 
tated that any one should doubt such irrefragable evi- 


26 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM, 


dence — ^Hf! Why, he told me himself! Look how he 
lies there/’ added the German pathetically, “worn out 
— poor fellow! We have something for him, though,” 
pointing with his forefinger over his shoulder to the 
saucepan that stood on the fire. “We are not cooks — 
not French cooks, not quite; hut it’s drinkable, drink- 
able, I think; better than nothing, I think,” he added, 
nodding his head in a jocund manner, that evinced his 
high estimation of the contents of the saucepan and his 
profound satisfaction therein. “Bish! bish! my chicken,” 
he said, as Lyndall tapped her little foot up and down 
upon the floor. “Bish! bish! my chicken, you will wake 
him.” 

He moved the candle so that his own head might inter- 
vene between it and the sleeper’s face; and smoothing 
his newspaper, he adjusted his spectacles to read. 

The child’s gray-black eyes rested on the figure on the 
bed, then turned to the German, then rested on the 
figure again. 

“/ think he is a liar. Good-night, Uncle Otto,” she 
said slowly, turning to the door. 

Long after she had gone the German folded his paper 
up methodically, and put it in his pocket. 

The stranger had not awakened to partake of the soup, 
and his son had fallen asleep on the ground. Taking 
two white sheepskins from the heap of sacks in the 
corner, the old man doubled them up, and lifting the 
boy’s head gently from the slate on which it rested, 
placed the skins beneath it. 

“Poor lambie, poor lambie!” he said, tenderly patting 
the great rough bear-like head; “tired is he!” 

He threw an overcoat across the boy’s feet, and lifted 
the saucepan from the fire. There was no place where 
the old man could comfortably lie down himself, so he 
resumed his seat. Opening a much-worn Bible, he began 


THE 8T0R Y OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 27 

to read, and as he read pleasant thoughts and visions 
thronged on him. 

“I was a stranger, and ye took me in,’’ he read. 

He turned again to the bed where the sleeper lay. 

‘H was a stranger.” 

Very tenderly the old man looked at him. He saw not 
the bloated body nor the evil face of the man; but, as it 
/ were, under deep disguise and fleshly concealment, the 
form that long years of dreaming had made very real to 
him. ‘‘Jesus lover, and is it given to us, weak and sin- 
ful, frail and erring, to serve Thee, to take Thee in!” he 
said softly, as he rose from his seat. Full of joy, he 
began to pace the little room. Now and again as he 
walked he sang the lines of a German hymn, or muttered 
broken words of prayer. The little room was full of 
light. It appeared to the German that Christ was very 
near him, and that at almost any moment the thin mist 
of earthly darkness that clouded his human eyes might 
be withdrawn, and that made manifest of which the 
. friends at Emmaus, beholding it, said, “It is the Lord!” 

Again, and yet again, through the long hours of that 
night, as the old man walked he looked up to the roof of 
his little room, with its blackened rafters, and yet saw 
them not. His rough bearded face was illuminated with 
a radiant gladness; and the night was not shorter to the 
dreaming sleepers than to him whose waking dreams 
brought heaven near. 

So quickly the night fled that he looked up with sur- 
prise when at four o’clock the first gray streaks of sum- 
mer dawn showed themselves through the little window. 
Then the old man turned to rake together the few coals 
that lay under the ashes, and his son, turning on the 
sheepskins, muttered sleepily to know if it were time to 
rise. 

“Lie still, lie still! I would only make a Are,” said the 
old man. 


28 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


“Have you been up all night?” asked the boy. 

“Yes; but it has been short, very short. Sleep again, 
my chicken; it is yet early.” 

And he went out to fetch more fuel. 


CHAPTER IV. 

BLESSED IS HE THAT BELIEVETH. 

Bon’aparte Blenkii^s sat on the side of the bed. He 
had wonderfully revived since the day before, held his 
head high, talked in a full sonorous voice, and ate 
greedily of all the viands offered him. At his side was a 
basin of soup, from which he took a deep draught now 
and again as he watched the fingers of the German, who 
sat on the mud fioor mending the bottom of a chair. 

Presently he looked out, where, in the afternoon sun- 
shine, a few half-grown ostriches might be seen wander- 
ing listlessly about, and then he looked in again at the 
little whitewashed room, and at Lyndall, who sat in the 
doorway looking at a book. Then he raised his chin and 
tried to adjust an imaginary shirt-collar. Finding none, 
he smoothed the little gray fringe at the back of his 
head, and began: 

“You are a student of history, I perceive, my friend, 
from the study of these volumes that lie scattered about 
this apartment; this fact has been made evident to me.” 

“Well — a little — perhaps — it maybe,” said the German 
meekly. 

“Being a student of history then,” said Bonaparte, 
raising himself loftily, “you will doubtless have heard of 
my great, of my celebrated kinsman, Napoleon Bona- 
parte?” 

“Yes, yes,” said the German, looking up. 

“I, sir,” said Bonaparte, “was born at this hour, on an 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM, 


29 


April afternoon, fifty-three years ago. The nurse, sir— 
she was the same who attended when the Duke of Suth- 
erland was horn — brought me to my mother. ‘There is 
only one name for this child,^ she said: ‘he has the nose 
of his great kinsman;’ and so Bonaparte Blenkins became 
my name — Bonaparte Blenkins. Yes, sir,” said Bona- 
parte, “there is a stream on my maternal side that con- 
nects me with a stream on his maternal side.” 

The German made a sound of astonishment. 

“The connection,” said Bonaparte, “is one which 
could not he easily comprehended by one unaccustomed 
to the study of aristocratic pedigrees; but the connection 
is close.” 

“Is it possible!” said the German, pausing in his work 
with much interest and astonishment. “Napoleon an 
Irishman!” 

“Yes,” said Bonaparte, “on the mother’s side, and 
that is how we are related. There wasn’t a man to beat 
him,” said Bonaparte, stretching himself — “not a man 
except the Duke of Wellington. And it’s a strange 
coincidence,” added Bonaparte, bending forward, “but 
he was a connection of mine. His nephew, the Duke of 
Wellington’s nephew, married a cousin of mine. She 
was a woman! See her at one of the court balls — amber 
satin — daisies in her hair. Worth going a hundred miles 
to look at her! Often seen her there myself, sir!” 

The German moved the leather thongs in and out, and 
thought of the strange vicissitudes of human life, which 
might bring the kinsman of dukes and emperors to his 
humble room. 

Bonaparte appeared lost among old memories. 

“Ah, that Duke of Wellington’s nephew!” he broke 
forth suddenly; “many’s the joke I’ve had with him. 
Often came to visit me at Bonaparte Hall. Grand place 
I had then — park, conservatory, servants. He had only 


30 


THE STOUT OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


one fault, that Duke of Wellington’s nephew,” said 
Bonaparte, observing that the German was deeply inter- 
ested in every word. ‘‘He was a coward — what you 
might call a coward. You’ve never been in Russia, I 
suppose?” said Bonaparte, fixing his crosswise looking 
eyes on the German’s face. 

“Ho, no,” said the old man humbly. “France, Eng- 
land, Germany, a little in this country ; it is all I have 
traveled.” 

“/, my friend,” said Bonaparte, “I have been in every 
country in the world, and speak every civilized language, 
excepting only Dutch and German. I wrote a book of 
my travels — noteworthy incidents. Publisher got it — 
cheated me out of it. Great rascals those publishers! 
Upon one occasion the Duke of Wellington’s nephew and 
I were traveling in Russia. All of a sudden one of the 
horses dropped down dead as a door-nail. There we were 
— cold night — snow four feet thick — great forest — one 
horse not being able to move sledge — night coming on — 
wolves. 

“ ‘Spree!’ says the Duke of Wellington’s nephew. 

“ ‘Spree, do you call it?’ says I. ‘Look out.’ 

“There, sticking out under a bush, was nothing less 
than the nose of a bear. The Duke of Wellington’s 
nephew was up a tree like a shot; I stood quietly on the 
ground, as cool as I am at this moment, loaded my gun, 
and climbed up the tree. There was only one bough. 

“ ‘Bon,’ said the Duke of Wellington’s nephew, ‘you’d 
better sit in front?’ 

‘All right,’ said I; ‘but keep your gun ready. There 
are more coming.’ He’d got his face buried in my 
back. 

“ ‘How many are there?’ said he. 

“ ‘Four,’ said I. 

“ ‘How many are there now?’ said he. 


THE STOUT OF AH AFRICAN FARM. 


31 


‘‘ ‘Eight/ said I. 

“ ‘How many are there now?’ said he. 

“ ‘Ten/ said I. 

“ ‘Ten! ten!’ said he; and down goes his gun. 

“ ‘Wallie/ I said, ‘what have you done? We’re dead 
men now.’ 

“ ‘Bon, my old fellow,’ said he, ‘I couldn’t help it; 
my hands trembled so!’ 

“ ‘Wall,’ I said, turning round and seizing his hand, 
‘Wallie, my dear lad, good-by. I’m not afraid to die. 
My legs are long — they hang down — the first hear that 
comes and I don’t hit him, off goes my foot. When he 
takes it I shall give you my gun and go. You may yet 
be saved; but tell, oh, tell Mary Ann that I thought of 
her, that I prayed for her.’ 

“ ‘Good-by, old fellow,’ said he. 

“ ‘God bless you,’ said I. 

“By this time the bears were sitting in a circle all 
around the tree. Yes,” said Bonaparte impressively, 
fixing his eyes on the German, “a regular, exact circle. 
The marks of their tails were left in the snow, and I 
measured it afterward; a drawing-master couldn’t have 
done it better. It was that saved me. If they’d rushed 
on me at once, poor old Bon would never have been here 
to tell this story. But they came on, sir, systematically y 
one by one. All the rest sat on their tails and waited. 
The first fellow came up, and I shot him; the second 
fellow — I shot him; the third — I shot him. At last the 
tenth came; he was the biggest of all — the leader, you 
may say. 

“ ‘Wall,’ I said, ‘give me your hand. My fingers are 
stiff with the cold; there is only one bullet left. I shall 
miss him. While he is eating^me you get down and take 
your gun; and live, dear friend, live to remember the 
man who gave his life for you!’ By that time the bear 
was afc me. I felt his paw on my trousers. 


32 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


“ ^Oh, Bonnie! Bonnie!’ said the Duke of Welling- 
ton’s nephew. But I just took my gun and put the 
muzzle to the bear’s ear — over he fell — dead!” 

Bonaparte Blenkins waited to observe what effect his 
story had made. Then he took out a dirty white hand- 
kerchief and stroked his forehead, and more especially his 
eyes. 

“It always affects me to relate that adventure,” he 
remarked, returning the handkerchief to his pocket. 
“Ingratitude — base, vile ingratitude — is recalled by it! 
That man, that man, who but for me would have per- 
ished in the pathless wilds of Russia, that man in the 
hour of my adversity forsook me.” The German looked 
up. “Yes,” said Bonaparte, “I had money, I had lands; 
I said to my wife: ‘There is Africa, a struggling country; 
they want capital; they want men of talent; they want 
men of ability to open up that land. Let us go. ’ 

“I bought eight thousand pounds’ worth of machinery 
— winnowing, plowing, reaping machines; I loaded a ship 
with them. Next steamer I came out — wife, children, 
all. Got to the Cape. Where is the ship with the 
things? Lost — gone to the bottom! And the box with 
the money? Lost — nothing saved! 

“My wife wrote to the Duke of Wellington’s nephew; 
I didn’t wish her to; she did it without my knowledge. 

“What did the man whose life I saved do? Did he 
send me thirty thousand pounds? say, ‘Bonaparte, my 
brother, here is a crumb?’ No; he sent me nothing. 

“My wife said, ‘Write,’ I said, ‘Mary Ann, ko. While 
these hands have power to work, no. While this frame 
has power to endure, no. Never shall it be said that 
Bonaparte Blenkins asked of any man.’ ” 

The man’s noble independence touched the German. 

“Your case is hard; yes, that is hard,” said the Ger- 
man, shaking his head. 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


33 


Bonaparte took another draught of the soup, leaned 
back against the pillows, and sighed deeply. 

“I think,’’ he said after awhile, rousing himself, ‘‘I 
shall now wander in the benign air, and taste the gentle 
cool of evening. The stiffness hovers over me yet; exer- 
cise is beneficial.” 

So saying, he adjusted his hat carefully on the bald 
crown of his head, and moved to the door. After he had 
gone the German sighed again over his work: 

“Ah, Lord! So it is! Ah!” 

He thought of the ingratitude of the world. 

“Uncle Otto,” said the child in the doorway, “did you 
ever hear of ten bears sitting on their tails in a circle?” 

“Well, not of ten exactly; hut hears do attack trav- 
elers every day. It is nothing unheard of,” said the 
German. “A man of such courage, too! Terrible ex- 
perience that!” 

“And how do we know that the story is true. Uncle 
Otto?” 

The German’s ire was roused. 

“That is what I do hate!” he cried. “Know that is 
true! How do you know that anything is true? Because 
you are told so. If we begin to question everything — 
proof, proof, proof, what will we have to believe left? 
How do you know the angel opened the prison door for 
Peter, except that Peter said so? How do you know 
that God talked to Moses, except that Moses wrote it? 
That is what I hate!” 

The girl knit her brows. Perhaps her thoughts made 
a longer journey than the German dreamed of; for, mark 
you, the old dream little how their words and lives are 
texts and studies to the generation that shall succeed 
them. Not what we are taught, hut what we see, makes 
us, and the child gathers the food on which the adult 
feeds to the end. 


34 


TEE STOUT OE AN AERIGAN EARM, 


When the German looked up next there was a look of 
supreme satisfaction in the little mouth and the beautiful 
eyes. 

^‘What dost see, chicken?’^ he asked. 

The child said nothing, and an agonizing shriek was 
borne on the afternoon breeze. 

“Oh, God! my God! I am killed!’^ cried the voice of ‘ 
Bonaparte, as he, with wide-open mouth and shaking 
flesh, fell into the room, followed by a half-grown ostrich, 
who put its head in at the door, opened its beak at him, 
and went away. 

“Shut the door! shut the door! As you value my life, 
shut the door!’’ cried Bonaparte, sinking into a chair, his 
face blue and white, with a greenishness about the mouth. 
“Ah, my friend,” he said tremulously, “eternity has 
looked me in the face! My life’s thread hung upon a 
cord! The valley of the shadow of death!” said Bona- 
parte, seizing the German’s arm. 

“Dear, dear, dear!” said the German, who had closed 
the lower half of the door, and stood much concerned 
beside the stranger, “you have had a fright. I never 
knew so young a bird to chase before; but they will take 
dislikes to certain people. I sent a boy away once be- 
cause a bird would chase him. Ah, dear, dear!” 

“When I looked round,” said Bonaparte, “the red and 
yawning cavity was above me, and the reprehensible paw 
raised to strike me.' My nerves,” said Bonaparte, sud- 
denly growing faint, “always delicate — highly strung^ — 
are broken — broken! You could not give a little wine, a 
little brandy, my friend?” 

The old German hurried away to the bookshelf, and took 
from behind the books a small bottle, half of whose con- 
tents he poured into a cup. Bonaparte drained it 
eagerly. 

“How do you feel now?” asked the German, looking 
at him with much sympathy. 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


35 


“A little, slightly better/’ 

The German went out to pick up the battered chimney- 
pot which had fallen before the door. 

“I am sorry you got the fright. The birds are bad 
things till you know them,” he said sympathetically, as 
he put the hat down. 

‘‘My friend,” said Bonaparte, holding out his hand, “I 
forgive you; do not be disturbed. Whatever the conse- 
quences, I forgive you. I know, I believe, it was with 
no ill-intent that you allowed me to go out. Give me 
your hand. I have no ill-feeling; none!” 

“You are very kind,” said the German, taking the ex- 
tended hand, and feeling suddenly convinced that he was 
receiving magnanimous forgiveness for some great injury, 
“you are very kind.” 

“Don’t mention it,” said Bonaparte. 

He knocked out the crown of his caved-in old hat, 
placed it on the table before him, leaned his elbows 
on the table and his face in his hands, and contemplated it. 

“Ah, my old friend,” he thus apostrophized the hat, 
“you have served me long, you have served me faith- 
fully, but the last day has come. Never more shall you 
be borne upon the head of your master. Never more 
shall you protect his brow from the burning rays of sum- 
mer or the cutting winds of winter. Henceforth bare- 
headed must your master go. Good-by, good-by, old 
hat!” 

At the end of this aifecting appeal the German rose. 
He went to the box at the foot of his bed; out of it he 
took a black hat, which had evidently been seldom worn 
and carefully preserved. 

“It’s not exactly what you may have been accustomed 
to,” he said nervously, putting it down beside the bat- 
tered chimney-pot, “but it might be of some use — a pro^ 
tection to the head, you know,” 


36 


TEE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


‘‘My friend/’ said Bonaparte, “you are not following 
my advice; you are allowing yourself to be reproached on 
my account. Do not make yourself unhappy. No; I 
shall go bareheaded.” 

“No, no, no!” cried the German energetically. “I 
have no use for the hat, none at all It is shut up in the 
box.” 

“Then I will take it, my friend. It is a comfort to 
one’s own mind when you have unintentionally injured 
any one to make reparation. I know the feeling. The 
hat may not be of that refined cut of which the old one 
was, but it will serve, yes, it will serve. Thank you,” 
said Bonaparte, adjusting it on his head, and then re- 
placing it on the table. “I shall lie down now and take 
a little repose,” he added; “I much fear my appetite for 
supper will be lost.” 

“I hope not, I hope not,” said the German, reseating 
himself at his work, and looking much concerned as 
Bonaparte stretched himself on the bed and turned the 
end of the patchwork quilt over his feet. 

“You must not think to make your departure, not^for 
many days,” said the German presently. “Tanf Sannie 
gives her consent, and ” 

“My friend,” said Bonaparte, closing his eyes sadly, 
“you are kind; but were it not that to-morrow is the 
Sabbath, weak and trembling as I lie here, I would pro- 
ceed on my way. I must seek work; idleness but for a 
day is painful. Worh, labor — is the secret of all true 
happiness!” 

He doubled the pillow under his head, and watched 
• how the German drew the leather thongs in and out. 

After awhile Lyndall silently put her book on the shelf 
and went home, and the German stood up and began to 
mix some water and meal for roaster-cakes. As he 
stirred them with his hands he said: 


TEE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


37 


‘‘I make always a double supply on Saturday night; 
the hands are then free as the thoughts for Sunday.’^ 

‘‘The blessed Sabbath!’^ said Bonaparte. 

There was a pause. Bonaparte twisted his eyes with- 
out moving his head, to see if supper were already on the 
fire. 

“You must sorely miss the administration of the Lord’s 
word in this desolate spot,” said Bonaparte. “Oh, how 
love I Thine house, and the place where Thine honor 
dwelleth!” 

“Well, we do; yes,” said the German; “but we do our 
best. We meet together, and I — well, I say a few words, 
and perhaps they are not wholly lost, not quite.” 

“Strange coincidence,” said Bonaparte; “my plan 
always was the same. Was in the Free State once — soli- 
tary farm — one neighbor. Every Sunday I called to- 
gether friend and neighbor, child and servant, and said, 
‘Kejoice with me, that we may serve the Lord,’ and then 
I addressed them. Ah, those were blessed times,” said 
Bonaparte; “would they might return.” 

The German stirred at the cakes, and stirred, and 
stirred, and stirred. He could give the stranger his bed, 
and he could give the stranger his hat, and he could give 
the stranger his brandy; but his Sunday service! 

After a good while he said: 

“I might speak to Tant’ Sannie; I might arrange; you 
might take the service in my place, if it ” 

“My friend,” said Bonaparte, “it would give me the 
profoundest felicity, the most unbounded satisfaction; 
but in these worn-out habiliments, in these deteriorated 
garments, it would not be possible, it would not be fit- 
ting that I should ofiiciate in service of One whom, for 
respect, we shall not name. No, my friend, I will remain 
here; and, while you are assembling yourselves together 
in the presence of the Lord, I, in my solitude, will think 
of and pray for you. No; I will remain here!” 


38 


TEE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM, 


It was a touching picture — the solitary man there 
praying for them. The German cleared his hands from 
the meal, and went to the chest from which he had taken 
the black hat. After a little careful feeling about he 
produced a black cloth coat, trousers, and waistcoat, 
which he laid on the table, smiling knowingly. They 
were of new shining cloth, worn twice a year, when he 
went to the town to “nachtmaal.^’ He looked with great 
pride at the coat as he unfolded it and held it up. 

‘Ht’s not the latest fashion, perhaps, not a West End 
cut, not exactly; but it might do; it might serve at a 
push. Try it on, try it on!’’ he said, his old gray eyes 
twinkling with pride. 

Bonaparte stood up and tried on the coat. It fitted 
admirably; the waistcoat could be made to button by 
ripping up the back, and the trousers were perfect; but 
below were the ragged boots. The German was not dis- 
concerted. Going to the beam where a pair of top-boots 
hung, he took them off, dusted them carefully, and put 
them down before Bonaparte. The old eyes now fairly 
brimmed over with sparkling enjoyment. 

have only worn them once. They might serve; 
they might be endured.” 

Bonaparte drew them on and stood upright, his head 
almost touching the beams. The German looked at him 
with profound admiration. It was wonderful what a 
difference feathers made in the bird. 


CHAPTER V. 

SUNDAV SERVICES. 

Service No, I, 

The boy Waldo kissed the pages of his book and looked 
up. Ear over the flat lay the ‘‘kopje,” a mere speck; 


THE STOUT OF AH AFBICAH FARM. 


39 


the sheep wandered quietly from bush to bush; the still- 
ness of the early Sunday rested everywhere, and the air 
was fresh. 

He looked down at his book. On its page a black 
insect crept. He lifted it off with his finger. Then he 
leaned on his elbow, watching its quivering antennae 
and strange movements, smiling. 

‘‘Even you,’’ he whispered, “shall not die. Even you 
He loves. Even you He will fold in His arms when He 
( takes everything and makes it perfect and happy.” 
j When the thing had gone he smoothed the leaves of his 
j Bible somewhat caressingly. The leaves of that book 
! had dropped blood for him once; they had taken the 
I brightness out of his childhood; from between them had 
! sprung the visions that had clung about him and made 
night horrible. Adder-like thoughts had lifted their 
heads, had shot out forked tongues at him, asking mock- 
ingly strange, trivial questions that he could not answer, 
miserable child: 

Why did the women in Mark see only one angel and 
the women in Luke two? Could a story be told in oppo- 
site ways and both ways be true? Could it? could it? 
Then again: Is there nothing always right, and nothing 
always wrong? Could Jael the wife of Heber the Kenite 
“put her hand to the nail, and her right hand to the 
workman’s hammer?” and could the Spirit of the Lord 
chant paeans over her, loud paeans, high paeans, set in the 
book of the Lord, and no voice cry out it was a mean and 
dastardly sin to lie, and kill the trusting in their sleep? 
Could the friend of God marry his own sister, and be 
beloved, and the man who does it to-day goes to hell, to 
hell? Was there nothing always right or always wrong? 

Those leaves had dropped blood for him once; they 
had made his heart heavy and cold; they had robbed his 
childhood of its gladness; now his fingers moved over 
them caressingly. 


40 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


‘‘My father God knows, my father knows/^ he said; 
“we cannot understand; He knows.” After awhile he 
whispered, smiling — “I heard your voice this morning 
when my eyes were not yet open, I felt you near me, my 
Father. Why do you love me so?” His face was illu- 
minated. “In the last four months the old question has 
gone from me. I know you are good; I know you love 
everything, I know, I know, I know! I could not have 
borne it any more, not any more.” He laughed softly. 
“And all the while I was so miserable you were looking 
at me and loving me, and I never knew it. But I know 
it now, I feel it,” said the boy, and he laughed low; “I 
feel it!” he laughed. 

After awhile he began partly to sing, partly to chant 
the disconnected verses of hymns, those which spoke his 
gladness, many times over. The sheep with their sense- I 
less eyes turned to look at him as he sang. 

At last he lapsed into quiet. Then as the boy lay there 
staring at bush and sand, he saw a vision. 

He had crossed the river of Heath, and walked on the 
other bank in the Lord’s land of Beulah. His feet sank 
into the dark grass, and he walked alone. Then, far over 
the fields, he saw a figure coming across the dark green 
grass. At first he thought it must be one of the angels; ! 
hut as it came nearer he began to feel what it was. And 
it came closer, closer to him, and then the voice said, 
“Come,” and he knew surely Who it was. He ran to 
the dear feet and touched them with his hands; yes, he 
held them fast! He lay down beside them. When he 
looked up the face was over him, and the glorious eyes 
were loving him; and they two were there alone together. 

He laughed a deep laugh; then started up like one 
suddenly awakened from sleep. 

“Oh, God!” he cried, “I cannot wait; I cannot wait! 

I want to die; I want to see Him; I want to touch Him. 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


41 


Let me die!^’ He folded his hands, trembling. ^‘How 
can I wait so long — for long, long years perhaps? I want 
to die — to see Him. I will die any death. Oh, let me 
come!’’ 

Weeping he bowed himself, and quivered from head to 
foot. After a long while he lifted his head. 

‘‘Yes; I will wait; I will wait. But not long; do not 
let it be very long, Jesus King. I want you; oh, I want 
you — soon, soon!” He sat still, staring across the plain 
with his tearful eyes. 


Service No, II. 

In the front room of the farmhouse sat Tant’ Sannie 
in her elbow-chair. In her hand was her great brass- 
clasped hymn-book, round her neck was a clean white 
handkerchief, under her feet was a wooden stove. There 
too sat Em and Lyndall, in clean pinafores and new 
shoes. There too was the spruce Hottentot in a starched 
white “cappje,” and her husband on the other side of 
the door, with his wool oiled and very much combed out, 
and staring at his new leather boots. The Kaffer serv- 
ants were not there because Tant’ Sannie held they were 
descended from apes, and needed no salvation. But the 
rest were gathered for the Sunday service, and waited 
the officiator. 

Meanwhile Bonaparte and the German approached arm 
in arm — Bonaparte resplendent in the black cloth clothes, 
a spotless shirt, and a spotless collar; the German in the 
old salt-and-pepper, casting shy glances of admiration at 
his companion. 

At the front door Bonaparte removed his hat with 
much dignity, raised his shirt collar, and entered. To 
the center table he walked, put his hat solemnly down by 
the big Bible, and bowed his head over it in silent prayer. 


42 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


The Boer-womaii looted at the Hottentot, and the 
Hottentot looked at the Boer-woman. 

There was one thing on earth for which Tant’ Sannie 
had a profound reverence, which exercised a subduing 
influence over her, which made her for the time a better 
woman — that thing was new, shining black cloth. It 
made her think of the “predikant;” it made her think 
of the elders who sat in the top pew of the church on 
Sundays, with the hair so nicely oilqd, so holy and re- 
spectable, with their little swallow-tailed coats; it made 
her think of heaven, where everything was so holy and 
respectable, and nobody wore tan-cord, and the littlest 
angel had a black-tailed coat. She wished she hadnT 
called him a thief and a Koman Catholic. She hoped 
the German hadn’t told him. She wondered where those 
clothes were when he came in rags to her door. There 
was no doubt, he was a very respectable man, a gentle- 
man. 

The German began to read a hymn. At the end of 
each line Bonaparte groaned, and twice at the end of 
every verse. 

The Boer-woman had often heard of persons groaning 
during prayers, to add a certain poignancy and finish to 
them; old Jan Vanderlinde, her mother’s brother, always 
did it after he was converted; and she would have looked 
upon it as no especial sign of grace in any one; but to 
groan at hymn-time! She was startled. She wondered 
if he remembered that she shook her fist in his face. 
This was a man of God. They knelt down to pray. The 
Boer-woman weighed two hundred and fifty pounds, and 
could not kneel. She sat in her chair, and peeped be- 
tween her crossed fingers at the stranger’s back. She 
could not understand what he said; but he was in 
earnest. He shook the chair by the back rail till it made 
quite a little dust on the mud floor, 


THE STOUT OF AN AFBIGAN FARM. 


43 


When they rose from their knees Bonaparte solemnly 
seated himself in the chair and opened the Bible. He 
blew his nose, pulled up his shirt collar, smoothed the 
leaves, stroked down his capacious waistcoat, blew his 
nose again, looked solemnly round the room, then began. 

‘‘All liars shall have their part in the lake which 
hurneth with fire and brimstone, which is the second 
death/ ^ 

Having read this portion of Scripture, Bonaparte 
paused impressively, and looked all round the room. 

“I shall not, my dear friends,’’ he said, “long detain 
you. Much of our precious time has already fled bliss- 
fully from us in the voice of thanksgiving and the 
tongue of praise. A few, a very few words are all I shall 
address to you, and may they be as a rod of iron dividing 
the bones from the marrow, and the marrow from the 
hones. 

“In the first place: What is a liar?” 

The question was put so pointedly, and followed by a 
pause so profound, that even the Hottentot man left off 
looking at his boots and opened his eyes, though he un- 
derstood not a word. 

“I repeat,” said Bonaparte, “what is a liar?” 

The sensation was intense; the attention of the audi- 
ence was riveted. 

“Have you any of you ever seen a liar, my dear 
friends?” There was a still longer pause. “I hope not; 
I truly hope not. But I will tell you what a liar is. I 
knew a liar once — a little hoy who lived in Cape Town, 
in Short Market Street. His mother and I sat together 
one day, discoursing about our souls. 

“ ‘Here, Sampson,’ said his mother, ‘go and buy six- 
pence of “meiboss” from the Malay round the corner.’ 

“When he came back she said: ‘How much have you 
got?’ 


44 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


‘Five/ he said. 

“He was afraid if he said six and a half she’d ask for 
some. And, my friends, that was a lie. The half of a 
‘meiboss’ stuck in his throat and he died and was buried. 
And where did the soul of that little liar go to, my 
friend? It went to the lake of fire and brimstone. This 
brings me to the second point of my discourse. 

“What is a lake of fire and brimstone? I will tell you, 
my friends,” said Bonaparte condescendingly. “The 
imagination unaided cannot conceive it; but by the help 
of the Lord I will put it before your mind’s eye. 

“I was traveling in Italy once on a time; I came to a 
city called Kome, a vast city, and near it is a mountain 
which spits forth fire. Its name is Etna. Now, there 
was a man in that city of Kome who had not the fear of 
God before his eyes, and he loved a woman. The woman 
died, and he walked up that mountain spitting fire, and 
when he got to the top he threw himself in at the hole 
that is there. The next day I went up. I was not 
afraid; the Lord preserves His servants. And in their 
hands shall they bear thee up, lest at any time thou fall 
into a volcano. It was dark night when I got there, but 
in the fear of the Lord I walked to the edge of the 
yawning abyss, and looked in. That sight — that sight, 
my friends, is impressed upon my most indelible mem- 
ory. I looked down into the lurid depths upon an in- 
candescent lake, a melted fire, a seething sea; the billows 
rolled from side to side, and on their fiery crests tossed 
the white skeleton of the suicide. The heat had burned 
the flesh from off the bones; they lay as a light cork upon 
the melted, fiery waves. One skeleton hand was raised 
upward, the finger pointing to heaven; the other, with 
outstretched finger, pointing downward, as though it 
would say, ‘I go below, but you, Bonaparte, may soar 
above.’ I gazed; I stood entranced. At that instant 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


45 


there was a crack in the lurid lake; it swelled, expanded, 
and the skeleton of the suicide disappeared, to be seen 
no more by mortal eye.’^ 

Here again Bonaparte rested, and then continued: 

‘‘The lake of melted stone rose in the crater, it swelled 
higher and higher at the side, it streamed forth at the 
top. I had presence of mind; near me was a rock; I 
stood upon it. The fiery torrent was vomited out and 
streamed on either side of me. And through that long 
and terrible night I stood there alone upon that rock, 
the glowing, fiery lava on every hand — a monument of 
the long-suffering and tender providence of the Lord, 
who spared me that I might this day testify in your ears 
of Him. 

“How, my dear friends, let us deduce the lessons that 
are to be learned from this narrative. 

“Firstly: let us never commit suicide. The man is a 
fool, my friends, that man is insane, my friends, who 
would leave this earth, my friends. Here are joys in- 
numerable, such as it hath not entered into the heart of 
man to understand, my friends. Here are clothes, my 
friends; here are beds, my friends; here is delicious food, 
my friends. Our precious bodies were given us. to love, 
to cherish. Oh, let us do so! Oh, let us never hurt 
them; but care for and love them, my friends!’’ 

Every one was impressed, and Bonaparte proceeded: 

“Thirdly: let us not love too much. If that young 
man had not loved that young woman, he would not 
have jumped into Mount Etna. The good men of old 
never did so. Was Jeremiah ever in love, or Ezekiel, or 
Hosea, or even any of the minor prophets? Ho. Then 
why should we be? Thousands are rolling in that lake 
at this moment who would say, ‘It was love that brought 
us here.’ Oh, let us think always of our own souls 
first. 


46 


THE STOUT OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


“ ‘A charge to keep I hav^e, 

A God to glorify, 

A never-dying soul to save, 

And fit it for the sky !’ 

‘‘Oh, beloved friends, remember the little boy and the 
‘meiboss;’ remember the young girl and the young man; 
remember the lake, the fire, and the brimstone; remem- 
ber the suicide’s skeleton on the pitchy billows of Mount 
Etna; remember the voice of warning that has this day 
sounded in your ears; and what I say to you I say to all 
— watch! May the Lord add his blessings!” 

Here the Bible closed with a tremendous thud. Tant’ 
Sannie loosened the white handkerchief about her neck 
and wiped her eyes, and the colored girl, seeing her do 
so, sniffled. They did not understand the discourse, 
which made it the more affecting. 

There hung over it that inscrutable charm which 
hovers forever for the human intellect over the incom- 
prehensible and shadowy. When the last hymn was sung 
the Herman conducted the officiator to Tant’ Sannie, who 
graciously extended her hand, and offered coffee and a 
seat on the sofa. Leaving him there, the German hur- 
ried away to see how the little plum-pudding he had left 
at home was advancing; and Tant’ Sannie remarked that 
it was a hot day. Bonaparte gathered her meaning as 
she fanned herself with the end of her apron. He bowed 
low in acquiescence. A long silence followed. Tant, 
Sannie spoke again. Bonaparte gave her no ear; his eye 
was fixed on a small miniature on the opposite wall, which 
represented Tant’ Sannie as she had appeared on the day 
before her confirmation, fifteen years before, attired in 
green muslin. Suddenly he started to his feet, walked 
up to the picture, and took his stand before it. Long 
and wistfully he gazed into its features; it was easy to 
see that he was deeply moved. With a sudden move- 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


47 


ment, as though no longer able to restrain himself, he 
seized the picture, loosened it from its nail, and held it 
close to his eyes. At length, turning to the Boer- 
woman, he said in a voice of deep emotion: 

“You will, I trust, dear madam, excuse this exhibition 1 
of my feelings; but this — this little picture recalls to me 
my first and best beloved, my dear departed wife, who is 
now a saint in heaven.” 

Tant’ Sannie could not understand; but the Hottentot 
maid, who had taken her seat on the fioor beside her mis- 
tress, translated the English into Dutch as far as she was 
able. 

“Ah, my first, my beloved!” he added, looking tenderly 
down at the picture. “Oh, the beloved, the beautiful 
lineaments! My angel wife! This is surely a sister of 
yours, madam?” he added, fixing his eyes on Tant’ 
Sannie. 

The Dutchwoman blushed, shook her head, and 
pointed to herself. 

Carefully, intently, Bonaparte looked from the picture 
in his hand to Tant’ Sannie’s features, and from the 
features back to the picture. Then slowly a light broke 
over his countenance, he looked up, it became a smile; 
he looked back at the miniature, his whole countenance 
was effulgent. 

“Ah, yes; I see it now,” he cried, turning his delighted 
gaze on the Boer-woman; “eyes, mouth, nose, chin, the 
very expression!” he cried. “How is it possible I did 
not notice it before?” 

“Take another cup of coffee,” said Tant’ Sannie. 
“Put some sugar in.” 

Bonaparte hung the picture tenderly up, and was 
turning to take the cup from her hand, when the German 
appeared, to say that the pudding was ready and the 
meat on the table. 


48 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


‘‘He’s a God-fearing man, and one who knows how to 
behave himself,” said the Boer-woman as he went out at 
the door. “If he’s ugly, did not the Lord make him? 
And are we to laugh at the Lord’s handiwork? It is 
better to be ugly and good than pretty and bad; though 
of course it’s nice when one is both,” said Tant’ Sannie, 
looking complacently at the picture on the wall. 

In the afternoon the German and Bonaparte sat before 
the door of the cabin. Both smoked in complete silence 
— Bonaparte with a book in his hands and his eyes half- 
closed; the German puffing vigorously, and glancing up 
now and again at the serene blue sky overhead. 

“Supposing — you — you, in fact, made the remark to 
me,” burst forth the German suddenly, “that you were 
looking for a situation.” 

Bonaparte opened his mouth wide, and sent a stream 
of smoke through his lips. 

“Now suposing,” said the German — “merely suppos- 
ing, of course — that some one, some one, in fact, should 
make an offer to you, say, to become schoolmaster on 
their farm and teach two children, two little girls, per- 
haps, and would give you forty pounds a year, would you 
accept it? Just supposing, of course.” 

“Well, my dear friend,” said Bonaparte, “that would 
depend on circumstances. Money is no consideration 
with me. For my wife I have made provision for the next 
year. My health is broken. Could I meet a place where 
a gentleman would be treated as a gentleman I would 
accept it, however small the remuneration. With me,” 
said Bonaparte, “money is no consideration.” 

“Well,” said the German, when he had taken a whiff 
or two more from his pipe, “I think I shall go up and see 
Tant’ Sannie a little. I go up often on Sunday after- 
noon to have a general conversation, to see her, you 
know. Nothing — nothing particular, you know.” 


THE STORY OF AH AFRICAN FARM. 


49 


The old man put his book into his pocket, and walked 
up to the farmhouse with a peculiarly knowing and 
delighted expression of countenance. 

‘‘He doesnT suspect what I’m going to do,” solilo- 
quized the German; “hasn’t the least idea. A nice sur- 
prise for him.” 

The man whom he had left at his doorway winked at 
the retreating figure with a wink that was not to be 
described. 


CHAPTEK VI. 

BONAPAETE BLEl^TKII^S MAKES HIS HEST. 

“Ah, what is the matter?” asked Waldo, stopping at 
the foot of the ladder with a load of skius on his back 
that he was carrying up to the loft. Through the open 
door in the gable little Em was visible, her feet dangling 
from the high bench on which she sat. The room, once 
a storeroom, had been divided by a row of “mealie” 
bags into two parts — the back being Bonaparte’s bed- 
room, the front his schoolroom. 

“Lyndall made him angry,” said the girl tearfully; 
“and he has given me the fourteenth of John to learn. 
He says he will teach me to behave myself when Lyndall 
troubles him.” 

“What did she do?” asked the boy. 

“You see,” said Em, hopelessly turning the leaves, 
“whenever he talks she looks out at the door, as though 
she did not hear him. To-day she asked him what the 
signs of the Zodiac were, and he said he was surprised 
that she should ask him; it was not a fit and proper thing 
for little girls to talk about. Then she asked him who 
Copernicus was; and he said he was one of the Emperors of 
Eome, who burned the Christians in a golden pig, and 


50 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


the worms ate him up while he was still alive. I don’t 
know why,” said Em plaintively, ‘‘hut she just put her 
books under her arm and walked out; and she will never 
come to his school again, she says, and she alioays does 
what she says. And now I must sit here every day 
alone,” said Em, the great tears dropping softly. 

“Perhaps Tant’ Sannie will send him away,” said the 
boy, in his mumbling way, trying to comfort her. 

“No,” said Em, shaking her head; “no. Last night 
when the little Hottentot maid was washing her feet he 
told her he liked such feet, and that fat women were so 
nice to him; and she said I must always put him pure 
cream in his coffee now. No; he’ll never go away,” said 
Em dolorously. 

The boy put down his skins and fumbled in his pocket, 
and produced a small piece of paper containing some- 
thing. He stuck it out toward her. 

“There, take it for you,” he said. This was by way 
of comfort. 

Em opened it and found a small bit of gum, a com- 
modity prized by the children; but the great tears 
dropped down slowly on to it. 

Waldo was distressed. He had cried so much in his 
morsel of life that tears in another seemed to burn him. 

“If,” he said, stepping in awkwardly and standing by 
the table, “if you will not cry I will tell you something 
— a secret.” 

“What is that?” asked Em, instantly becoming de- 
cidedly better. 

“You will tell it to no human being?” 

“No.” 

He bent nearer to her, and with deep solemnity said: 

I have made a machine 

Em opened her eyes. 

“Yes; a machine for shearing sheep. It is almost 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


51 


done,” said the boy. ‘‘There is only one thing that is 
not right yet; but it will be soon. When you think, and 
think, and think, all night and all day, it comes at last,” 
he added mysteriously. 

“Where is it?” 

“Here! I always carry it here,” said the boy, putting 
his hand to his breast, where a bulging-out was visible. 
“This is a model. When it is done they will have to 
make a large one.” 

“Show it me.” 

The boy shook his head. 

“No, not till it is done. I cannot let any human being 
see it till then.” 

“It is a beautiful secret,” said Em; and the boy 
shuffled out to pick up his skins. 

That evening father and son sat in the cabin eating 
their supper. The father sighed deeply sometimes. 
Perhaps he thought how long a time it was since Bona- 
parte had visited the cabin; but his son was in that land 
in which sighs have no part. It is a question whether it 
were not better to be the shabbiest of fools, and know 
the way up the little stair of imagination to the land of 
dreams, than the wisest of men, who see nothing that 
the eyes do not show, and feel nothjng that the hands do 
not touch. The boy chewed his brown bread and drank 
his coffee; but in truth he saw only his machine finished 
— that last something found out and added. He saw it 
as it worked with beautiful smoothness; and over and 
above, as he chewed his bread and drank his coffee, there 
was that delightful consciousness of something bending 
over him and loving him. It would not have been better 
in one of the courts of heaven, where the walls are set 
with rows of the King of Glory’s amethysts and milk- 
white pearls, than there, eating his supper in that little 
room. 


52 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


As they sat in silence there was a knock at the door. 
When it was opened the small woolly head of a little 
nigger showed itself. She was a messenger from Tant, 
Sannie: the German was wanted at once at the home- 
stead. Putting on his hat with both hands, he hurried 
off. The kitchen was in darkness, but in the pantry 
beyond TanP Sannie and her maids were assembled. 

A Kaffer girl, who had been grinding pepper between 
two stones, knelt on the floor, the lean Hottentot stood 
with a brass candlestick in her hand, and Taut’ Sannie, 
near the shelf, with a hand on each hip, was evidently 
listening intently, as were her companions. 

“What may he it?’’ cried the old German in astonish- 
ment. The room beyond the pantry was the storeroom. 
Through the thin wooden partition there arose at that 
instant, evidently from some creature ensconced there, a 
prolonged and prodigious howl, followed by a succession 
of violent blows against the partition wall. 

The German seized the churn-stick, and was about to 
rush round the house, when the Boer-woman impress- 
ively laid her hand upon his arm. 

“That is his head,” said Tant’ Sannie, “that is his 
head.” 

“But what might ^it he?” asked the German, looking 
from one to the other, churn -stick in hand. 

A low hollow bellow prevented reply, and the voice of 
Bonaparte lifted itself on high. 

“Mary Ann! my angel! my wife!” 

“Isn’t it dreadful?” said Tant’ Sannie, as the blows 
were repeated fiercely. “He has got a letter; his wife is 
dead. You must go and comfort him,” said Tant’ 
Sannie at last, “and I will go with you. It would not be 
the thing for me to go alone — me, who am only thirty- 
three, and he an unmarried man now,” said Tant’ 
Sannie, blushing and smoothing out her apron. 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


53 


Upon this they all trudged round the house in com- 
pany — the Hottentot maid carrying the light, Tant’ 
Sannie and the German following, and the Kafler girl 
bringing up the rear. 

‘‘Oh,’’ said Tant’ Sannie, “I see now it wasu’t wicked- 
ness made him do without his wife so long — only neces- 
sity.” 

At the door she motioned to the German to enter, and 
followed him closely. On the stretcher behind the sacks 
Bonaparte lay on his face, his head pressed into a pillow, 
his legs kicking gently. The Boer-woman sat down on a 
box at the foot of the bed. The German stood with 
folded hands looking on. 

“We must all die,” said Tant’ Sannie at last; “it is 
the dear Lord’s will.” 

Hearing her voice, Bonaparte turned himself on to his 
back. 

“It's very hard,” said Tant’ Sannie, “I know, for I’ve 
lost two husbands.” 

Bonaparte looked up into the German’s face. 

“Oh, what does she say? Speak to me words of com- 
fort!” 

The German repeated Tant’ Sannie’s remark. 

“Ah, I — I also! Two dear, dear wives, whom I shall 
never see any more!” cried Bonaparte, flinging himself 
back upon the bed. 

He howled, till the tarantulas, who lived between the 
rafters and the zinc roof, felt the unusual vibration, and 
looked out with their wicked bright eyes, to see what was 
going on. 

Tant’ Sannie sighed, the Hottentot maid sighed, the 
Kafler girl who looked in at the door put her hand over 
her mouth and said “Mow — ^wah!” 

“You must trust in the Lord,” said Tant’ Sannie. 
“He can give you more than you have lost.” 


54 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


‘‘I do, I do!’’ he cried; ‘‘but oh, I have no wife! I 
have no wife!” 

Tant’ Sannie was much affected, and came and stood 
near the bed. 

“Ask him if he won’t have a little pap — nice, fine flour 
pap. There is some boiling on the kitchen fire.” 

The German made the proposal, but the widower waved 
his hand. 

“No, nothing shall pass my lips. I should be suffo- 
cated. No, no! Speak not of food to me!” 

“Pap, and a little brandy in,” said Tant’ Sannie coax- 
ingly. 

Bonaparte caught the word. 

“Perhaps, perhaps — if I struggled with myself — for 
the sake of my duties I might imbibe a few drops,” he 
said, looking with quivering lip up into the German’s 
face. “I must do my duty, must I not?” 

Tant’ Sannie gave the order, and the girl went for the 
pap. 

“I know how it was when my first husband died. 
They could do nothing with me,” the Boer-woman said, 
“till I had eaten a sheep’s trotter, and honey, and a little 
roaster-cake, /know.” 

Bonaparte sat up on the bed with his legs stretched out 
in front of him, and a hand on each knee, blubbering 
softly. 

“Oh, she was a woman! You are very kind to try and 
comfort me, but she was my wife. For a woman that is 
my wife I could live; for the woman that is my wife I 
could die! For a woman that is my wife I could — Ah! 
that sweet word wife ; when will it rest upon my lips 
again?” 

When his feelings had subsided a little he raised the 
corners of his turned-down mouth, and spoke to the 
German with flabby lips. 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


55 


‘^Do you think she understands me? Oh, tell her 
every word, that she may know I thank her.” 

At that instant the girl reappeared with a basin of 
steaming gruel and a black bottle. 

Tant’ Sannie poured some of its contents into the 
basin, stirred it well, and came to the bed. 

“Oh, I can’t, I can’t! I shall die! I shall die!” said 
Bonaparte, putting his hands to his side. 

“Come, just a little,” said Tant’ Sannie coaxingly; 
“just a drop.” 

“It’s too thick, it’s too thick. I should choke.” 

Tant’ Sannie added from the contents of the bottle 
and held out a spoonful; Bonaparte opened his mouth 
like a little bird waiting for a worm, and held it open, as 
she dipped again and again into the pap. 

“Ah, this will do your heart good,” said Tant’ Sannie, 
in whose mind the relative functions of heart and stomach 
were exceedingly ill-defined. 

When the basin was emptied the violence of his grief 
was much assuaged; he looked at Tant’ Sannie with 
gentle tears. 

“Tell him,” said the Boer-woman, “that I hope he will 
sleep well, and that the Lord will comfort him, as the 
Lord only can.” 

“Bless you, dear friend, God bless you,” said Bona- 
parte. 

When the door was safely shut on the German, the 
Hottentot, and the Dutchwoman, he got off the bed and 
washed away the soap he had rubbed on his eyelids. 

“Bon,” he said, slapping his leg, “you’re the cutest 
lad I ever came across. If you don’t turn out the old 
Hymns-and-prayers, and pummel the Ragged coat, and 
get your arms round the fat one’s waist and a wedding- 
ring on her finger, then you are not Bonaparte. But 
you are Bonaparte. Bon, you’re a fine boy!” 


56 


THE STORY OF AH AFRICAN FARM. 


Making which pleasing reflection, he pulled o£E his 
trousers and got into bed cheerfully. 


CHAPTEK VIL 

HE SETS HIS TRAP. 

‘‘May I come in? I hope I do not disturb you, my 
dear friend,^’ said Bonaparte, late one evening, putting 
his nose in at the cabin door, where the German and his 
son sat flnishing their supper. 

It was now two months since he had been installed as 
schoolmaster in Tant’ Sannie’s household, and he had 
grown mighty and more mighty day by day. He visited 
the cabin no more, sat nlose to Tant’ Sannie drinking 
coffee all the evening, and walked about loftily with his 
hands under the coat-tails of the German’s black cloth, 
and failed to see even a nigger who wished him a defer- 
ential good-morning. It was therefore with no small sur- 
prise that the German perceived Bonaparte’s red nose at 
the door. 

“Walk in, walk in,” he said joyfully. “Boy, boy, see 
if there is any coffee left. Well, none. Make a fire. 
We have done supper, but ” 

“My dear friend,” said Bonaparte, taking off his hat, 
“I came not to sup, not for mere creature comforts, but 
for an hour of brotherly intercourse with a kindred 
spirit. The press of business and the weight of thought, 
but they alone, may sometimes prevent me from sharing 
the secrets of my bosom with him for whom I have so 
great a sympathy. You perhaps wonder when I shall 
return the two pounds ” 

“Oh, no, no! Make a fire, make a fire, boy. We will 
have a pot of hot coffee presently,” said the German, 


THE STORY OF AH AFRICAN FARM. 


57 


rubbing his hands and looking about, not knowing how 
best to show his pleasure at the unexpected visit. 

For three weeks the German’s diffident “Good-even- 
ing” had met with a stately bow; the chin of Bonaparte 
lifting itself higher daily; and his shadow had not dark- 
ened the cabin doorway since he came to borrow the two 
pounds. The German walked to the head of the bed and 
took down a blue bag that hung there. Blue bags were 
a specialty of the German’s. He kept above fifty stowed 
away in different corners of his room — some filled with 
curious stones, some with seeds that had been in his pos- 
session fifteen years, some with rusty nails, buckles, and 
bits of old harness — in all, a wonderful assortment, but 
highly prized. 

“We have something here not so bad,” said the Ger- 
man, smiling knowingly, as he dived his hand into the 
bag and took out a handful of almonds and raisins; “I 
buy these for my chickens. They increase in size, but 
they still think the old man must have something nice 
for them. And the old man — well, a big boy may have a 
sweet tooth sometimes, may he not? Ha, ha!” said the 
German, chuckling at his own joke, as he heaped the 
plate with almonds. “Here is a stone — two stones to 
crack them — no late patent improvement — well, Adam’s 
nutcracker; ha, ha! But I think we shall do. We will 
not leave them uncracked. We will consume a few with- 
out fashionable improvements.” 

Here the German sat down on one side of the table, 
Bonaparte on the other; each one with a couple of fiat 
stones before him, and the plate between them. 

“Do not be afraid,” said the German, “do not be 
afraid. I do not forget the boy at the fire; I crack for 
him. The bag is full. Why, this is strange,” he said 
suddenly, cracking open a large nut; “three kernels! I 
have not observed that before. This must be retained. 


58 


THE STOUT OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


This is valuable.’’ He wrapped the nut gravely in paper, 
and put it carefully in his waistcoat pocket. ‘‘Valuable, 
very valuable!” he said, shaking his head. 

“Ah, my friend,” said Bonaparte, “what joy it is to 
be once more in your society.” 

The German’s eyes glistened, and Bonaparte seized his 
hand and squeezed it warmly. They then proceeded to 
crack and eat. After awhile Bonaparte said, stuffing a 
handful of raisins into his mouth: 

“I was so deeply grieved, my dear friend, that you and 
Tant’ Sannie had some slight unpleasantness this even- 
ing.” 

“Oh, no, no,” said the German; “it is all right now. 
A few sheep missing; but I make it good myself. I give 
my twelve sheep, and work in the other eight.” 

“It is rather hard that you should have to make good 
the lost sheep,” said Bonaparte; “it is no fault of yours.” 

“Well,” said the German, “this is the case. Last 
evening I count the sheep at the kraal-— twenty are miss- 
ing. I ask the herd; he tells me they are with the other 
flock; he tells me so distinctly; how can I think he lies? 
This afternoon I count the other flock. The sheep are 
not there. I come back here: the herd is gone; the 
sheep 'are gone. But I cannot — no, I will not — believe 
he stole them,” said the German, growing suddenly ex- 
cited. “Some one else, but not he. I know that boy. 
I knew him three years. He is a good boy. I have seen 
him deeply affected on account of his soul. And she 
would send the police after him! I say I would rather 
make the loss good myself. I will not have it; he has 
fled in fear. I know his heart. It was,” said the Ger- 
man, with a little gentle hesitation, “under my words 
that he flrst felt his need of a Saviour.” 

Bonaparte cracked some more almonds, then said, 
yawning, and more as though he asked for the ^ake of 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


59 


having something to converse about than from any inter- 
est he felt in the subject: 

^‘And what has become of the herd’s wife?” 

The German was alight again in a moment. 

“Yes; his wife. She has a child six days old, and 
Tant’ Sannie would turn her out into the fields this 
night. That,” said the German, rising, “that is what I 
call cruelty — diabolical cruelty. My soul abhors that 
deed. The man that could do such a thing I could run 
him through with a knife!” said the German, his gray 
eyes hashing, and his bushy beard adding to the murder- 
ous fury of his aspect. Then suddenly subsiding, he 
said, “But all is now well; Tant’ Sannie gives her word 
that the maid shall remain for some days. I go to 
Oom Muller’s to-morrow to learn if the sheep may not 
be there. If they are not, then I return. They are gone, 
that is all. I make it good.” 

“Tanf Sannie is a singular woman,” said Bonaparte, 
taking the tobacco bag the German passed to him. 

“Singular! Yes,” said the German; “but her heart is 
on her right side. I have lived long years with her, and 
I may say, I have for her an affection, which she returns. 
I may say,” added the German with warmth, “I may 
say that there is not one soul on this farm for whom I 
have not an affection.” 

“Ah, my friend,” said Bonaparte, “when the grace of 
God is in our hearts, is it not so with us all? Do we not 
love the very worm we tread upon, and as we tread upon 
it? Do we know distinctions of race, or of sex, or of 
color? No! 

“ ‘ Love so amazing, so divine, 

It fills my soul, my life, my all.’ ” 

After a time he sank into a less fervent mood, and re- 
marked: 


CO TSE story of an AFRICAN FARM. 

“The colored female who waits upon Tant’ Sannie 
appears to be of a virtuous disposition, an individual 
who ’’ 

“Virtuous!^’ said the German; “I have confidence in 
her. There is that in her which is pure, that which is 
noble. The rich and high that walk this earth with lofty 
eyelids might exchange with her.^^ 

The German here got up to bring a coal for Bonaparte’s 
pipe, and they sat together talking for awhile. At length 
Bonaparte knocked the ashes out of his pipe. 

“It is time that I took my departure, dear friend,” he 
said; “but before I do so, shall we not close this evening 
of sweet communion and brotherly intercourse by a few 
words of prayer? Oh, how good and how pleasant a 
thing it is for brethren to dwell together in unity! It is 
like the dew upon the mountains of Hermon; for there 
the Lord bestowed a blessing, even life for evermore.” 

“Stay and drink some coffee,” said the German. 

“No, thank you, my friend; I have business that must 
be done to-night,” said Bonaparte. “Your dear son ap- 
pears to have gone to sleep. He is going to take the 
wagon to the mill to-morrow! What a little man he is.” 

“A fine boy.” 

But though the boy nodded before the fire he was not 
asleep; and they all knelt down to pray. 

When they rose from their knees Bonaparte extended 
his hand to Waldo, and patted him on the head. 

; ^“Good-night, my lad,” said he. “As you go to the 
mill to-morrow, we shall not see you for some days. 
Good-night! Good-by! The Lord bless and guide you; 
and may He bring you back to us in safety to find us all 
as you have left us He laid some emphasis on the last 
words. “And you, my dear friend,” he added, turning 
with redoubled warmth to the German, ‘Tong, long shall 
I look back to this evening as a time of refreshing from 


TEE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


61 


the presence of the Lord, as an hour of blessed inter- 
course with a brother in Jesus. May such often return. 
The Lord bless you!’’ he added, with yet deeper fervor, 
“richly, richly.” 

Then he opened the door and vanished out into the 
darkness. 

“He, he, he!” laughed Bonaparte, as he stumbled 
over the stones. “If there isn’t the rarest lot of fools on 
this farm that ever God Almighty stuck legs to. He, he, 
he! When the worms come out then the blackbirds feed. 
Ha, ha, ha!” Then he drew himself up; even when 
alone he liked to pose with a certain dignity; it was 
second nature to him. 

He looked in at the kitchen door. The Hottentot 
maid who acted as interpreter between Tant’ Sannie and 
himself was gone, and Tant’ Sannie herself was in bed. 

“Never mind. Bon, my boy,” he said, as he walked 
round to his own room, “to-morrow will do. He, he, he !” 


CHAPTEK VIII. 

HE CATCHES THE OLD BIRD. 

At four o’clock the next afternoon the German rode 
across the plain, returniug from his search for the lost 
sheep. He rode slowly, for he had been in the saddle 
since sunrise and was somewhat weary, and the heat of 
the afternoon made his horse sleepy as it picked its way 
slowly along the sandy road. Every now and then a 
great red spider would start out of the karroo on one 
side of the path and run across to the other, but nothing 
else broke the still monotony. Presently, behind one of 
the highest of the milk-bushes that dotted the roadside, 
the German caught sight of a Kaffer woman, seated there 


62 


TEE STOUT OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


evidently for such shadow as the milk-bush might afford 
from the sloping rays of the sun. 

The German turned the horse’s head out of the road. 
It was not his way to pass a living creature without a 
word of greeting. Coming nearer, he found it was no 
other than the wife of the absconding Kaffer herd. She 
had a baby tied on her back by a dirty strip of red 
blanket; another strip hardly larger was twisted round 
her waist; for the rest her black body was naked. She 
was a sullen, ill-looking woman with lips hideously pro- 
truding. 

The German questioned her as to how she came there. 
She muttered in broken Dutch that she had been turned 
away. Had she done evil? She shook her head sullenly. 
Had she had food given her? She grunted a negative, 
and fanned the flies from her baby. Telling the woman 
to remain where she was, he turned his horse’s head to 
the road and rode off at a furious pace. 

‘‘Hard-hearted! cruel! Oh, my God! Is this the way? 
Is this charity?” 

“Yes, yes, yes,” ejaculated the old man as he rode on; 
but, presently, his anger began to evaporate, his horse’s 
pace slackened, and by the time he had reached his own 
door he was nodding and smiling. 

Dismounting quickly, he went to the great chest where 
his provisions were kept. Here he got out a little meal, 
a little mealies, a few roaster-cakes. These he tied up in 
three blue handkerchiefs, and putting them into a sail- 
cloth bag, he strung them over his shoulders. Then he 
looked circumspectly out at the door. It was very bad 
to be discovered in the act of giving; it made him red up 
to the roots of his old grizzled hair. Ho one was about, 
however, so he rode off again. Beside the milk-bush sat 
the Kaffer woman still— like Hagar, he thought, thrust 
out by her mistress in the wilderness to die. Telling her 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


63 


to loosen the handkerchief from her head, he poured into 
it the contents of his hag. The woman tied it up in 
sullen silence. 

‘‘You must try and get to the next farm/’ said the 
German. 

The woman shook her head; she would sleep in the i 
field. 

The German reflected. Kaffer women were accus- 
tomed to sleep in the open air; but the, then child was 
small, and after so hot a day the night might be chilly. 
That she would creep back to the huts at the homestead 
when the darkness favored her, the German’s sagacity 
did not make evident to him. He took off the old brown 
salt-and-pepper coat, and held it out to her. The woman 
received it in silence, and laid it across her knee. “With 
that they will sleep warmly; not so bad. Ha, ha!” said 
the German. And he rode home, nodding his head in a 
manner that would have made any other man dizzy. 

“I wish he would not come back to-night,” said Em, 
her face wet with tears. 

“It will be just the same if he comes back to-morrow,” 
said Lyndall. 

The two girls sat on the step of the cabin weeping for 
the German’s return. Lyndall shaded her eyes with her 
hand from the sunset light. 

“There he comes,” she said, “whistling ‘Ach Jerusa- 
lem du schone’ so loud I can hear him here.” 

“Perhaps he has found the sheep.” 

“Found them!” said Lyndall. “He would whistle 
just so if he knew he had to die to-night.” 

“You look at the sunset, eh, chickens?” the German 
said, as he came up at a smart canter. “Ah, yes, that is 
beautiful!” he added, as he dismounted, pausing for a 
moment with his hand on the saddle to look at the even- 
ing sky, where the sun shot up long flaming streaks. 


64 


THE STOUT OE AH AFRICAN FARM. 


between which and the eye thin yellow clouds floated. 
‘‘Ei! you weep?’’ said the German as the girls ran up to 
him. 

Before they had time to reply the voice of Tant’ Sannie 
was heard. 

‘‘You child, of the child, of the child of a Kafler’s 
dog, come here!” 

The German looked up. He thought the Dutch- 
woman, come out to cool herself in the yard, called to 
some misbehaving servant. The old man looked around 
to see who it might be. 

“You old vagabond of a praying German, are you 
deaf?” 

Tant’ Sannie stood before the steps of the kitchen; 
upon them sat the lean Hottentot, upon the highest 
stood Bonaparte Blenkins, both hands folded under the 
tails of his coat, and his eyes flxed on the sunset sky. 

The German dropped the saddle on the ground. 

“Bish, bish, bish! what may this be?” he said, and 
walked toward the house. “Very strange!” 

The girls followed him: Em still weeping; Lyndall 
with her face rather white and her eyes wide open. 

“And I have the heart of a devil, did you say? You 
could run me through with a knife, could you?” cried 
the Dutchwoman. “I could not drive the Kaffer maid 
away because I was afraid of you, was I? Oh, you miser- 
able rag! I loved you, did I? I would have liked to 
marry you, would I? would I? would I?” cried the 
Boer-woman ; ‘ ‘you cat’s tail, you dog’s paw ! Be near my 
house to-morrow morning when the sun rises,” she 
gasped, “my Kaflers will drag you through the sand. 
They would do it gladly, any of them,, for a bit of to- 
bacco, for all your prayings with them.” 

“I am bewildered, I am bewildered,” said the German, 
standing before her and raising his hand to his forehead; 
“I — I do not understand.” 


TEE STOUT OF AE AFUICAN FAUM. 


65 


‘“'Ask him, ask him?’’ cried Tant’ Sannie, pointing to 
Bonaparte; ‘‘he knows. You thought he could not make 
me understand, but he did, he did, you old fool! I know 
enough English for that. You he here,” shouted the 
Dutchwoman, “when the morning star rises, and I will 
let my Kaffers take you out and drag you till there is not 
one hone left in your old body that is not broken as fine 
as bobootie meat, you old beggar! All your rags are not 
worth that — they should be thrown out onto the ash- 
heap,” cried the Boer-woman; “but I will have them for 
my sheep. Not one rotten hoof of your old mare do you 
take with you; I will have her — all, all for my sheep that 
you have lost, you godless thing!” 

The Boer-woman wiped the moisture from her mouth 
with the palm of her hand. 

The German turned to Bonaparte, who still stood on 
the step absorbed in the beauty of the sunset. 

“Do not address me; do not"" approach me, lost man,” 
said Bonaparte, not moving his eye nor lowering his chin. 
“There is a crime from which all nature revolts; there is 
a crime whose name is loathsome to the human ear — ^that 
crime is yours; that crime is ingratitude. This woman 
has been your benefactress; on her farm you have lived; 
after her sheep you have looked; into her house you have 
been allowed to enter and hold divine service — an honor 
of which you were never worthy; and how have you 
rewarded her? — basely, basely, basely!” 

“But it is all false, lies and falsehoods. I must,. I will 
speak,” said the German, suddenly looking round bewil- 
dered. “Do I dream? Are you mad? What may it be?” 

“Go, dog,” cried the Dutchwoman; “I would have 
been a rich woman this day if it had not been for your 
laziness. Praying with the Kaffers behind the kraal 
walls. Go, you Kafier’&4og!” 

“But what-then is the matter? What may have hap- 


6G 


THE STOUT OF AW AFUTGAW FARM. 


pened since I left?’’ said the German, turning to the 
Hottenot woman, who sat upon the step. 

She was his friend; she would tell him kindly the 
truth. The woman answered by a loud, ringing laugh. 

“Give it him, old missis! Give it him!” 

It was so nice to see the white man who had been 
master hunted down. The colored woman laughed, and 
threw a dozen mealie grains into her mouth to chew. 

All anger and excitement faded from the old man’s 
face. He turned slowly away and walked down the little 
path to his cabin, with his shoulders bent; it was all dark 
before him. He stumbled over the threshold of his own 
well-known door. 

Em, sobbing bitterly, would have followed him; but 
the Boer-woman prevented her by a flood of speech which 
convulsed the Hottentot, so low were its images. 

“Come, Em,” said Lyndall, lifting her small proud 
head, “let us go in. We will not stay to hear such 
language.” 

She looked into the Boer-woman’s eyes. Tant’ Sannie 
understood the meaning cf the look if not the words. 
She waddled after them, and caught Em by the arm. 
She had struck Lyndall once years before, and had never 
done it again, so she took Em. 

“So you will defy me, too, will you, you Englishman’s 
ugliness?” she cried, and with one hand she forced the 
child down and held her head tightly against her knee; 
with the other she beat her flrst upon one cheek, and 
then upon the other. 

For one instant Lyndall looked on, then she laid her 
small Angers on the Boer-woman’s arm. With the exer- 
tion of half its strength Tant’ Sannie might have flung 
the girl back upon the stones. It was not the power of 
the slight fingers, tightly though they clinched her broad 
wrist— so tightly that at bedtime the marks were still 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


67 


there;* but the Boer-woman looked into the clear eyes 
and at the quivering white lips, and with a half-surprised 
curse relaxed her hold. The girl drew Em’s arm through' 
her own. 

“Move!” she said to Bonaparte, who stood in the door; 
and he, Bonaparte the invincible, in the hour of his tri- 
umph, moved to give her place. 

The Hottentot ceased to laugh, and an uncomfortable 
silence fell on all the three in the doorway. 

Once in their room, Em sat down on the floor and 
wailed bitterly. Lyndall lay on the bed with her arm 
drawn across her eyes, very white and still. 

“Hoo, hoo!” cried Em; “and they won’t let him take 
the gray mare; and Waldo has gone to the mill. Hoo, 
hoo, and perhaps they won’t let us go and say good-hy to 
him. Hoo, hoo, hoo!” 

“I wish you would be quiet,” said Lyndall without 
moving. “Does it give you such felicity to let Bona- 
parte know he is hurting you? We will ask no one. It 
will be supper-time soon. Listen — and when you hear 
the clink of the knives and forks we will go out and see 
him.” 

Em suppressed her sobs and listened intently, kneeling 
at the door. Suddenly some one came to the window 
and put the shutter up. 

“Who was that?’ said Lyndall, starting. 

“The girl, I suppose,” said Em. “How early she is 
this evening!” 

But Lyndall sprung from the bed and seized the handle 
of the door, shaking it fiercely. The door was locked on 
the outside. She ground her teeth. 

“What is the matter?” asked Em. 

The room was in perfect darkness now. 

“Nothing,” said Lyndall quietly; “only they have 
locked us in.” 


68 


THE 8T0RT OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


She turned, and went back to bed again. But ere long 
Em heard a sound of movement. Lyndall had climbed 
up into the window, and with her fingers felt the wood- 
work that surrounded the panes. Slipping down, the 
girl loosened the iron knob from the foot of the bed- 
stead, and climbing up again she broke with it every pane 
of glass in the window, beginning at the top and ending 
at the bottom. 

‘‘What are you doing?’’ asked Em, who heard the 
falling fragments. 

Her companion made her no reply; but leaned on every 
little cross-bar, which cracked and gave way beneath her. 
Then she pressed with all her strength against the shut- 
ter. She had thought the wooden buttons would give 
way, but by the clinking sound she knew that the iron 
bar had been put across. She was quite quiet for a time. 
Clambering down, she took from the table a small one- 
hladed pen-knife, with which she began to peck at the 
hard wood of the shutter. 

“What are you doing now?” asked Em, who had 
ceased crying in her wonder, and had drawn near. 

“Trying to make a hole,” was the short reply. 

“Ho you think you will be able to?” 

“Ho; but I am trying.” 

In an agony of suspense Em waited. For ten minutes 
Lyndall pecked. The hole was three-eighths of an inch 
deep — then the blade sprung into ten pieces. 

“What has happened now?” Em asked, blubbering 
afresh. 

“Nothing,” said Lyndall. “Bring me my nightgown, 
a piece of paper, and the matches.” 

Wondering, Em fumbled about till she found them. 

“What are you going to do with them?” she whispered. 

“Burn down the window.” 

“But won’t the whole house take fire and burn down 
too?” 


THE STORT OF AH AFRIGAH FARM. 


69 


‘‘Yes/’ 

“But will it not be very wicked?” 

“Yes, very. And I do not care.” 

She arranged the nightgown carefully in the corner 
of the window, with the chips of the frame about it. 
There was only one match in the box. She drew it care- 
fully along the wall. For a moment it burned up blue, 
and showed the tiny face with its glistening eyes. She 
held it carefully to the paper. For an instant it burned 
up brightly, then flickered and went out. She blew the 
spark, but it died also. Then she threw the paper on to 
the ground, trod on it, and went to her bed, and began to 
undress. 

Em rushed to the door, knocking against it wildly. 

“Oh, Tant’ Sannie! Tant’ Sannie! Oh, let us out!” 
she cried. “Oh, Lyndall, what are we to do?” 

Lyndall wiped a drop of blood off the lip she had 
bitten. 

“I am going to sleep,” she said. “If you like to sit 
there and howl till the morning, do. Perhaps you will 
And that it helps; I never heard that howling helped any 
one.” 

Long after, when Em herself had gone to bed and was 
almost asleep, Lyndall came and stood at her bedside. 

“Here,” she said, slipped a little pot of powder into 
her hand; “rub some on to your face. Does it not burn 
where she struck you?” 

Then she crept back to her own bed. Long, long after, 
when Em was really asleep, she lay still awake, and 
folded her hands on her little breast, and muttered : 

“When that day comes, and I am strong, I will hate 
everything that has power, and help everything that is 
weak.” And she bit her lip again. 

The German looked out at the cabin door for the last 
time that night. Then he paced the room slowly and 


70 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


sighed. Then he drew out pen and paper, and sat down 
to write, rubbing his old gray eyes with his knuckles 
before he began. 

‘‘My Chickens: You did not come to say good-by to 
the old man. Might you? Ah, well, there is a land 
where they part no more, where saints immortal reign. 

“I sit here alone, and I think of you. Will you forget 
the old man? When you wake to-morrow he will be far 
away. The old horse is lazy, but he has his stick to help 
him; that is three legs. He- comes back one day with 
gold and diamonds. Will you welcome him? Well, we 
shall see. I go to meet Waldo. He comes back with the 
wagon; then he follows me. Poor boy? God knows. 
There is a land where all things are made right, but that 
land is not here. 

“My little children, serve the Saviour; give your hearts 
to Him while you are yet young. Life is short. 

“Nothing is mine, otherwise I would say, Lyndall, take 
my books, Em, my stones. Now I say nothing. The 
things are mine: it is not righteous, God knows? But I 
am silent. Let it be. But I feel it, I must say I feel it. 

“Do not cry too much for the old man. He goes out 
to seek his fortune, and comes back with it in a bag, it 
may be. 

“I love my children. Do they think of me? I am Old 
Otto, who goes out to seek his fortune. 0. F.’’ 

Having concluded this quaint production, he put it 
where the children would find it the next morning, and 
proceeded to prepare his bundle. He never thought of 
entering a protest against the loss of his goods; like a 
child he submitted, and wept. He had been there eleven 
years, and it was hard to go away. He spread open on 
the bed a blue handkerchief, and on it put one by one 

the things he thought most necessary and important a 

little bag of curious seeds, which he meant to plant some 
day, an old German hymn-book, three misshapen stones 
that he greatly valued, a Bible, a shirt and two handker- 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


71 


chiefs; then there was room for nothing more. He tied 
up the bundle tightly and put it on a chair by his bedside. 

‘‘That is not much; they cannot say I take much/’ he 
said, looking at it. 

He put his knotted stick beside it, his blue tobacco bag 
and his short pipe, and then inspected his coats. He had 
two left — a moth-eaten overcoat and a black alpaca, out 
at the elbows. He decided for the overcoat; it was warm, 
certainly, but then he could carry it over his arm and 
only put it on when he met some one along the road. It 
was more respectable than the black alpaca. 

He hung the greatcoat over the back of the chair, and 
stuffed a hard bit of roaster-cake under the knot of the 
bundle, and then his preparations were completed. The 
German stood contemplating them with much satisfac- 
tion. He had almost forgotten his sorrow at leaving in 
his pleasure at preparing. Suddenly he started; an ex- 
pression of intense pain passed over his face. He drew 
back his left arm quickly, and then pressed his right 
hand upon his breast. 

“Ah, the sudden pang again,” he said. 

His face was white, but it quickly regained its color. 
Then the old man busied himself in putting everything 
right. 

“I will leave it neat. They shall not say I did not 
leave it neat,” he said. Even the little bags of seeds on 
the mantelpiece he put in rows and dusted. Then he 
undressed and got into bed. Under his pillow was a little 
story-book. He drew it forth. To the old German a 
story was no story. Its events were as real and as im- 
portant to himself as the matters of his own life. 

He could not go away without knowing whether that 
wicked earl relented and whether the baron married 
Emilina. So he adjusted his spectacles and began to 
read. Occasionally, as his feelings became too strongly 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


TZ 

moved, he ejaculated: ‘‘Ah, I thought so! That was a 
rogue! I saw it before! I knew it from the beginning!’^ 
More than half an hour had passed when he looked up to 
the silver watch at the top of his bed. 

“The march is long to-morrow; this will not do,^’ he 
said, taking off his spectacles and putting them carefully 
into the book to mark the place. “This will be good 
reading as I walk along to-morrow,’^ he added, as he 
stuffed the hook into the pocket of the greatcoat; “very 
good reading.’^ He nodded his head and lay down. He 
thought a little of his own troubles, a good deal of the 
two little girls he was leaving, of the earl, of Emilina, of 
the baron; but he was soon asleep — sleeping as peacefully 
as a little child, upon whose innocent soul sorrow and 
care cannot rest. 

It was very quiet in the room. The coals in the fire- 
place threw a dull red light across the fioor upon the red 
lions on the quilt. Eleven o’clock came, and the room 
was very still. 

One o’clock came. The glimmer had died out, though 
the ashes were still warm, and the room was very dark. 
The gray mouse, who had his hole under the tool-box, 
came out and sat on the sacks in the corner; then, grow- 
ing bolder, the room was so dark, it climbed the chair at 
the bedside, nibbled at the roaster-cake, took one bite 
quickly at the candle, and then sat on his haunches listen- 
ing. It heard the even breathing of the old man, and 
the steps of the hungry Kaffer dog going his last round 
in search of a bone or a skin that had been forgotten ; 
and it heard the white hen call out as the wild-cat ran 
away with one of her brood, and it heard the chicken 
cry. Then the gray mouse went back to its hole under 
the tool-box, and the room was quiet. And two o’clock 
came. By that time the night was grown dull and 
cloudy. The wild-cat had gone to its home on the 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


73 


‘‘kopje;” the Kaffer dog had found a bone, and lay 
gnawing it. 

An intense quiet reigned everywhere. Only in her 
room the Boer-woman tossed her great arms in her sleep; 
for she dreamed that a dark shadow with outstretched 
wings fled slowly over her house, and she moaned and 
shivered. And the night was very still. 

But, quiet as all places were, there was a quite peculiar 
quiet in the German’s room. Though you strained your 
ear most carefully you caught no sound of breathing. 

He was not gone, for the old coat still hung on the 
chair — the coat that was to he put on when he met any 
one; and the bundle and stick were ready for to-morrow’s 
long march. The old German himself lay there, his wavy 
black hair just touched with gray thrown hack upon the 
pillow. The old face was lying there alone in the dark, 
smiling like a little child’s — oh, so peacefully. There is 
a stranger whose coming, they say, is worse than all the 
ills of life, from whose presence we flee away trembling; 
hut he comes very tenderly sometimes. And it seemed 
almost as though Death had known and loved the old 
man, so gently it touched him. And how could it deal 
hardly with him — the loving, simple, childlike old man? 

So it smoothed out the wrinkles that were in the old 
forehead, and flxed the passing smile, and sealed the eyes 
that they might not weep again; and then the short sleep 
of time was melted into the long, long sleep of eternity. 

“How has he grown so young in this one night?” they 
said when they found him in the morning. 

Yes, dear old man; to such as you time brings no age. 
You die with the purity and innocence of your childhood 
upon you, though you die in your gray hairs. 


'4 


THE 8T0BT OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


CHAPTER IX. 

HE SEES A- GHOST. 

Bonaparte stood on the ash-heap. He espied across 
the plain a moving speck, and he chucked his coat-tails 
up and down in expectancy of a scene. 

The wagon came on siowly. Waldo laid curled among 
the sacks at the back of the wagon, the hand in his breast 
resting on the sheep-shearing machine. It was finished 
now. The right thought had struck him the day before 
as he sat, half-asleep, watching the water go over the 
mill-wheel. He muttered to himself with half-closed 
eyes: 

^‘To-morrow smooth the cogs — tighten the screws a 
little — show it to them.” Then after a pause — ‘‘Over 
the whole world — the whole world — mine, that I have 
made!” He pressed the little wheels and pulleys in his 
pocket till they cracked. Presently his muttering be- 
came louder — “And fifty pounds — a black hat for my 
dadda — for Lyndall a blue silk, very light; and one pur- 
ple like the earth-bells, and white shoes.” He muttered 
on — “A box full, full of books. They shall tell me all, 
all, all,” he added, moving his fingers desiringly: “why 
the crystals grow in such beautiful shapes; why lightning 
runs to the iron; why black people are black; why the 
sunlight makes things warm. I shall read, read, read,” 
he muttered slowly. Then came over him suddenly what 
he called “The presence of God;” a sense of a good, 
strong something folding him round. He smiled through 
his half-shut eyes. “Ah, Father, my own Father, it is 
so sweet to feel you, like the warm sunshine. The 
Bibles and books cannot tell of you and all I feel you. 
They are mixed with men’s words; but you ” 

His muttering sank into inaudible confusion^ till. 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


75 


opening his eyes wide, it struck him that the brown 
plain he looked at was the old home farm. For half an 
hour they had been riding in it, and he had not known it. 
He roused the leader, who sat nodding on the front of 
the wagon in the early morning sunlight. They were 
within half a mile of the homestead. It seemed to him 
that he had been gone from them all a year. He fancied 
he could see Lyndall standing on the brick wall to watch 
for him; his father passing from one house to the other, 
stopping to look. 

He called aloud to the oxen. For each one at home 
he had brought something. For his father a piece of to- 
bacco, bought at the shop by the mill; for Em a thimble; 
for Lyndall a beautiful flower dug out by the roots, at a 
place where they had ‘‘out-spanned;’’ for Tant’ Sannie a 
handkerchief. When they drew near the house he threw 
the whip to the Kaffer leader, and sprang from the side 
of the wagon to run on. Bonaparte stopped him as he 
ran past the ash-heap. 

“Good-morning, my dear boy. Where are you running 
to so fast with your rosy cheeks?” 

The boy looked up at him, glad even to see Bonaparte. 

“I am going to the cabin,” he said, out of breath. 

“You won’t find them in just now — not your good old 
father,” said Bonaparte. 

“Where is he?” asked the lad. 

“There, beyond the camps,” said Bonaparte, waving 
his hand oratorically toward the stone-walled ostrich- 
camps. 

“What is he doing there?” asked the boy. 

Bonaparte patted him on the cheek kindly. 

“We could not keep him any more, it was too hot. 
We’ve buried him, my boy,” said Bonaparte, touching 
with his finger the boy’s cheek. “We couldn’t keep him 
any more. He, he, he!” laughed Bonaparte, as the boy 


76 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


fled away along the low stone wall, almost furtively, as 
one in fear* 

At five o^clock Bonaparte knelt before a box in the 
German’s room. He was busily unpacking it. 

It had been agreed upon between Tant’ Sannie and 
himself, that now the German was gone he, Bonaparte, 
was to be no longer schoolmaster, but overseer of the 
farm. In return for his past scholastic labors he had ex- 
pressed himself willing to take possession of the dead 
man’s goods and room. Tant’ Sannie hardly liked the 
arrangement. She had a great deal more respect for the 
German dead than the German living, and would rather 
his goods had been allowed to descend peacefully to his 
son. For she was a firm believer in the chinks in the 
world above, where not only ears, but eyes might be ap- 
plied to see how things went on in this world below. She 
never felt sure how far the spirit-world might overlap 
this world of sense, and, as a rule, prudently abstained 
from doing anything which might offend unseen auditors. 
For this reason she abstained from ill-using the dead 
Englishman’s daughter and niece, and for this reason she 
would rather the boy had had his father’s goods. But it 
was hard to refuse Bonaparte anything when she and he 
sat so happily together in the evening drinking coffee, 
Bonaparte telling her in the broken Dutch he was fast 
learning how he adored fat women, and what a splendid 
farmer he was. 

So at five o’clock on this afternoon Bonaparte knelt in 
the German’s room. 

“Somewhere, here it is,” he said, as he packed the old 
clothes carefully out of the box, and, finding nothing, 
packed them in again. “Somewhere in this room it is; 
and if it’s here Bonaparte finds it,” he repeated. “You 
didn’t stay here all these years without making a little 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


77 


pile somewhere, my lamb. You weren't such a fool as 
you looked. Oh, no!" said Bonaparte. 

He now walked about the room, diving his fingers in 
everywhere: sticking them into the great crevices in the 
wall and frightening out the spiders; rapping them 
against the old plaster till it cracked and fell in pieces; 
peering up the chimney, till the soot dropped on his bald 
head and blackened it. He felt in little blue bags; he 
tried to raise the hearthstone; he shook each hook, till 
the old leaves fell down in showers on the fioor. 

It was getting dark, and Bonaparte stood with his 
finger on his nose refiecting. Finally he walked to the 
door, behind which hung the trousers and waistcoat the 
dead man had last worn. He had felt in them, hut hur- 
riedly, just after the funeral the day before ; he would ex- 
amine them again. Sticking his fingers into the waistcoat 
pockets, he found in one corner a hole. Pressing his 
hand through it, between the lining and the cloth, he 
presently came into contact with something. Bonaparte 
drew it forth — a small, square parcel, sewed up in sail- 
cloth. He gazed at it, squeezed it; it cracked, as though 
full of banknotes. He put it quickly into his own waist- 
coat pocket, and peeped over the half-door to see if there 
was any one coming. There was nothing to be seen but 
the last rays of yellow sunset light, painting the karroo 
bushes in the plain, and shining on the ash-heap, where 
the fowls were pecking. He turned and sat down on the 
nearest chair, and, taking out his pen-knife, ripped the 
parcel open. The first thing that fell was a shower of 
yellow faded papers. Bonaparte opened them carefully 
one by one, and smoothed them out on his knee. There 
was something very valuable to be hidden so carefully, 
though the German characters he could not decipher. 
When he came to the last one, he felt there was some- 
thing hard in it. 


78 


THE STOUT OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


You’ve got it. Bon, my boy! you’ve got it!” he cried, 
slapping his leg hard. Edging nearer to the door, for the 
light was fading, he opened the paper carefully. There 
was nothing inside but a plain gold wedding-ring. 

“Better than nothing!” said Bonaparte, trying to put 
it on his little finger, which, however, proved too fat. 

He took it ofi and set it down on the table before him, 
and looked at it with his crosswise eyes. 

“When that auspicious hour, Sannie,” he said, “shall 
have arrived, when, panting, I shall lead thee, lighted by 
Hymen’s torch, to the connubial altar, then upon thy fair 
amaranthine finger, my joyous bride, shall this ring 
repose. 

“ Thy fair body, oh, my girl. 

Shall Bonaparte possess; 

His fingers in thy money-bags. 

He therein, too, shall mess.” 

Having given utterance to this flood of poesy, he sat lost 
in joyous reflection. 

“He therein, too, shall mess,” he repeated meditatively. 

At this instant, as Bonaparte swore, and swore truly to 
the end of his life, a slow and distinct rap was given on 
the crown of his bald head. 

Bonaparte started and looked up. Ho “reim” or 
strap hung down from the rafters above, and not a human 
creature was near the door. It was growing dark; he did 
not like it. He began to fold up the papers expeditiously. 
He stretched out his hand for the ring. The ring was 
gone! Gone, although no human creature had entered 
the room; gone, although no form had crossed the door- 
way. Gone! 

He would not sleep there, that was certain. 

He stuffed the papers into his pocket. As he did so, 
three slow and distinct taps were given on the crown of 
his head. Bonaparte’s jaw fell: each separate joint lost 


THE 8T0R Y OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 79 

its power: he could not move; he dared not rise; his 
tongue lay loose in his mouth. 

‘‘Take all, take all!’’ he gurgled in his throat. “I — I 
do not want them. Take ” 

Here a resolute tug at the gray curls at the back of his 
head caused him to leap up, yelling wildly. Was he to 
sit still paralyzed, to be dragged away bodily to the devil? 
With terrific shrieks he fled, casting no glance behind. 

When the dew was falling, and the evening was dark, a 
small figure moved toward the gate of the furthest 
ostrich-camp, driving a bird before it. When the gate 
was opened and the bird driven in and the gate fastened, 
it turned away, but then suddenly paused near the stone 
wall. 

“Is that you, Waldo?” said Lyndall, hearing a sound. 

The boy was sitting on the damp ground with his back 
to the wall. He gave her no answer. 

“Come,” she said, bending over him, “I have been 
looking for you all day.” 

He mumbled something. 

“You have had nothing to eat. I have put some sup- 
per in your room. You must come home with me, 
Waldo.” 

She took his hand, and the boy rose slowly. 

She made him take her arm, and twisted her small 
fingers among his. 

“You must forget,” she whispered. “Since it hap- 
pened I walk, I talk, I never sit still. If we remember, 
we cannot bring back the dead.” She knit her little 
fingers closer among his. “Forgetting is the best thing. 
He did watch it coming,” she whispered presently. 
“That is the dreadful thing, to see it coming!” She 
shuddered. “I want it to come so to me too. Why do 
you think I was driving that bird?” she added quickly. 


80 


THE STORY OF AH AFRICAN FARM. 


‘‘That was Hans, the bird that hates Bonaparte. I let 
him out this afternoon; I thought he would chase him 
and perhaps kill him.’’ 

The boy showed no sign of interest. 

“He did not catch him; but he put his head over the 
half-door of your cabin and frightened him horribly. He 
was there, busy stealing your things. Perhaps he will 
leave them alone now; but I wish the bird had trodden 
on him.” 

They said no more till they reached the door of the 
cabin. 

“There is a candle and supper on the table. You must 
eat,” she said authoritatively. “I cannot stay with you 
now, lest they find out about the bird.” 

He grasped her arm and brought his mouth close to her 
ear. 

“There is no God!” he almost hissed; “no God; not 
anywhere!” 

She started. 

anywhere !” 

He ground it out between his teeth, and she felt his hot 
breath on her cheek. 

“Waldo, you are mad,” she said, drawing herself from 
him instinctively. 

He loosened his grasp and turned away from her also. 

In truth, is it not life’s way? We fight our little bat- 
tles alone; you yours, I mine. We must not help or find 
help. 

When your life is most real, to me you are mad; when 
your agony is blackest, I look at you and wonder. 
Friendship is good, a strong stick; but when the hour 
comes to lean hard, it gives. In the day of their bitterest 
need all souls are alone. 

Lyndall stood by him in the dark, pityingly, wonder- 
ingly. As he walked to the door, she came after him. 


THE 8T0R T OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 81 

“Eat your supper; it will do you good/’ she said. 

She rubbed her cheek against his shoulder and then ran 
away. 

In the front room the little woolly Kaffer girl was 
washing Tant’ Sannie’s feet in a small tub, and Bona- 
parte, who sat on the wooden sofa, was pulling off his 
shoes and stockings that his own feet might be washed 
also. There were three candles burning in the room, and 
he and Tant’ Sannie sat close together, with the lean 
Hottentot not far off; for when ghosts are about much 
light is needed, there is great strength in numbers. 
Bonaparte had completely recovered from the effects of 
his fright in the afternoon, and the numerous doses of 
brandy that it had been necessary to administer to him to 
effect his restoration had put him into a singularly pleas- 
ant and amiable mood. 

“That boy Waldo,” said Bonaparte, rubbing his toes, 
“took himself off coolly this morning as soon as the 
wagon came, and has not done a stiver of work all day. 
ril not have that kind of thing now I’m master of this 
farm.” 

The Hottentot maid translated. 

“Ah, I expect he’s sorry that his father’s dead,” said 
Tant’ Sannie. “It’s nature, you know. I cried the whole 
morning when my father died. One can always get 
another husband, but one can’t get another father,” said 
Tant’ Sannie, casting a sidelong glance at Bonaparte. 

Bonaparte expressed a wish to give Waldo his orders for 
the next day’s work, and accordingly the little woolly- 
headed Kaffer was sent to call him. After a considerable 
time the boy appeared, and stood in the doorway. 

If they had dressed him in one of the swallow-tailed 
coats, and oiled his hair till the drops fell from it, and 
it lay as smooth as an elder’s on sacrament Sunday, there 
would still have been something unanointed in the aspect 


,82 


TEE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM, 


of the fellow. As it was, standing there in his strange 
old costume, his head presenting much the appearance of 
having been deeply rolled in sand, his eyelids swollen, 
the hair hanging over his forehead, and a dogged sullen- 
ness on his features, he presented most the appearance of 
an ill-conditioned young buffalo. 

“Beloved Lord,’’ cried Tant’ Sannie, “how he looks! 
Come in, hoy. Couldn’t you come and say good-day to 
me? Don’t you want some supper?” 

He said he wanted nothing, and turned his heavy eyes 
away from her. 

“There’s a ghost been seen in your father’s room,” 
said Tant’ Sannie. “If you’re afraid you can sleep in the 
kitchen.” 

“I will sleep in our room,” said the boy slowly. 

“Well, you can go now,” she said; “but be up early to 
take the sheep. The herd ” 

“Yes, be up early, my boy,” interrupted Bonaparte, 
smiling. “I am to be master of this farm now; and we 
shall be good friends, I trust, very good friends, if you try 
to do your duty, my dear boy.” 

Waldo turned to go, and Bonaparte, looking benignly 
at the candle, stretched out one unstockinged foot, over 
which Waldo, looking at nothing in particular, fell with a 
heavy thud upon the floor. 

“Dear me! I hope you are not hurt, my boy,” said 
Bonaparte. “You’ll have many a harder thing than that, 
though, before you’ve gone through life,” he added con- 
solingly, as Waldo picked himself up. 

The lean Hottentot laughed till the room rang again; 
and Tant’ Sannie tittered till her sides ached. 

When he had gone the little maid began to wash Bona- 
parte’s feet. 

“Oh, Lord, beloved Lord, how he did fall! I can’t 
think of it,” cried Tant’ Sannie, and she laughed again. 


THE STORY OF AH AFRICAH FARM. 


83 


“I always did know he was not right; but this evening 
any one could see it/’ she added, wiping the tears of 
mirth from her face, ‘‘His eyes are as wild as if the 
devil was in them. He never was like other children. 
The dear Lord knows, if he doesn’t walk alone for hours 
talking to himself. If you sit in the room with him you 
can see his lips moving the whole time; and if you talk 
to him twenty times he doesn’t hear you. Haft-eyes; 
he’s as mad as mad can be.” 

This repetition of the word mad conveyed meaning to 
Bonaparte’s mind. He left off paddling his toes in the 
water. 

“Mad, mad? I know that kind of mad,” said Bona- 
parte, “and I know the thing to give for it. The front 
end of a little horsewhip, the tip! Nice thing; takes it 
out,” said Bonaparte. 

The Hottentot laughed, and translated. 

“No more walking about and talking to themselves on 
this farm now,” said Bonaparte; “no more minding of 
sheep and reading of books at the same time. The point 
of a horsewhip is a little thing, but I think he’ll have a 
taste of it before long.” Bonaparte rubbed his hands 
and looked pleasantly across his nose; and then the three 
laughed together grimly. 

And Waldo in his cabin crouched in the dark in a 
corner, with his knees drawn up to his chin. 


CHAPTER X. 

HE SHOWS HIS TEETH. 

Doss sat among the karroo bushes, one yellow ear 
drawn over his wicked little eye, ready to flap away any 
adventurous fly that might settle on his nose. Around 
him in the morning sunlight fed the sheep; behind him 


84 


THE 8T0BT OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


lay his master polishing his machine. He found much 
comfort in handling it that morning. A dozen philoso- 
phical essays, or angelically attuned songs for the consola- 
tion of the bereaved, could never have been to him what 
that little sheep-shearing machine was that day. 

^<After struggling to see the unseeable, growing drunk 
(with the endeavor to span the infinite, and writhing before 
the inscrutable mystery, it is a renovating relief to turn to 
some simple, feelable, weighable substance; to something 
which has a smell and a color, which may be handled and 
turned over this way and that. Whether there be or be 
not a hereafter, whether there be any use in calling aloud 
to the Unseen power, whether there be an Unseen power 
to call to, whatever be the true nature of the I who call 
and of the objects around me, whatever be our meaning, 
our internal essence, our cause (and in a certain order of 
minds death and the agony of loss inevitably awaken the 
wild desire, at other times smothered, to look into these 
things), whatever be the nature of that which lies beyond 
the unbroken wall which the limits of the human intel- 
lect build up on every hand, this thing is certain — a knife 
will cut wood, and one cogged wheel will turn another. 
This is sure. 

Waldo found an immeasurable satisfaction in the han- 
dling of his machine; but Doss winked and blinked, and 
thought it all frightfully monotonous out there on the 
flat, and presently dropped asleep, sitting bolt upright. 
Suddenly his eyes opened wide; something was coming 
from the direction of the homestead. Winking his eyes 
and looking intently, he perceived it was the gray mare. 
Now Doss had wondered much of late what had become 
of her master. Seeing she carried some one on her back, 
he now came to his own conclusion, and began to move 
his tail violently up and down. Presently he pricked up 
one ear and let the other hang; his tail become motion- 


THE STORY OF AH AFRICAN FARM. 


85 


less, and the expression of his mouth was one of decided 
disapproval bordering on scorn. He wrinkled his lips up 
on each side into little lines. 

The sand was soft, and the gray mare came on so 
noiselessly that the hoy heard nothing till Bonaparte dis- 
mounted. Then Doss got up and moved back a step. 
He did not approve of Bonaparte’s appearance. His 
costume, in truth, was of a unique kind. It was a com- 
bination of the town and country. The tails of his black 
cloth coat were pinned up behind to keep them from rub- 
bing; he had on a pair of moleskin trousers and leather 
gaiters, and in his hand he carried a little whip of 
rhinoceros hide. 

Waldo started and looked up. Had there been a mo- 
ment’s time he would have dug a hole in the sand with 
his hands and buried his treasure. It was only a toy of 
wood, but he loved it, -as one of necessity loves what has 
been born of him, whether of the flesh or spirit. When 
cold eyes have looked at it the feathers are rubbed off 
our butterfly’s wing forever. 

^‘What have you here, my lad?” said Bonaparte, stand- 
ing by him, and pointing with the end of his whip to the 
medley of wheels and hinges. 

The boy muttered something inaudible, and half-spread 
over the thing. 

‘^But this seems to be a very ingenious little machine,” 
said Bonaparte, seating himself on the ant-heap, and 
bending down over it with deep interest. ‘‘What is it 
for, my lad?” 

“Shearing sheep.” 

“It is a very nice little machine,” said Bonaparte. 
“How does it work, now? I have never seen anything 
so ingenious!” 

There was never a parent who heard deception in the 
voice that praised his child — his flrst-born. HerQ was 


86 


THE STORY OF AH AFRICAN FARM. 


one who liked the thing that had been created in him. 
He forgot everything. He showed how the shears would 
work with a little guidance^ how the sheep would be 
held, and the wool fall into the trough. A flush burst 
over his face as he spoke. 

‘H tell you what, my lad,’’ said Bonaparte emphatic- 
ally, when the explanation was flnished, ^^we must get 
you a patent. Your fortune is made. In three years’ 
time there’ll not be a farm in this colony where it isn’t 
working. You’re a genius, that’s what you are!” said 
Bonaparte, rising. 

‘‘If it were made larger,” said the hoy, raising his eyes, 
“it would work more smoothly. Do you think there 
would he any one in this colony would be able to make 
it?” 

“I’m sure they could,” said Bonaparte; “and if not, 
why. I’ll do my best for you. I’ll send it to England. 
It must be done somehow. How long have you worked 
at it?” 

“Nine months,” said the hoy. 

“Oh, it is such a nice little machine,” said Bonaparte, 
“one can’t help feeling an interest in it. There is only 
one little improvement, one very little improvement, I 
should like to make.” 

Bonaparte put his foot on the machine and crushed it 
into the sand. The boy looked up into his face. 

“Looks better now,” said Bonaparte, “doesn’t it? If 
we can’t have it made in England we’ll send it to Amer- 
ica. Good-by; ta-ta,” he added. “You’re a great 
genius, a born genius, my dear boy, there’s no doubt 
about it.” 

He mounted the gray mare and rode off. The dog 
watched his retreat with cynical satisfaction; hut his 
master lay on the ground with his head on his arms in* 
the sand, and the little wheels and chips of wood lay on 


THE STORY OF AH AFRICAN FARM. 


87 


the ground around him. The dog jumped on to his back 
and snapped at the black curls, till, finding that no 
notice was taken, he walked oft to play with a black 
beetle. The beetle was hard at work trying to roll home 
a great ball of dung it had been collecting all the morn- 
ing; but Doss broke the ball, and ate the beetle’s hind 
legs, and then bit off its head. And it was all play, and 
no one could tell what it had lived and worked for. A 
striving, and a striving, and an ending in nothing. 


CHAPTER XI. 

HE SNAPS. 

‘H HAVE found something in the loft,” said Em to 
Waldo, who was listlessly piling cakes of fuel on the kraal 
wall, a week after. “It is a box of books that belonged 
to my father. We thought Tant’ Sannie had burned 
them.” 

The boy put down the cake he was raising and looked 
at her. 

“I don’t think they are very nice, not stories,” she 
added, “but you can go and take any you like.” 

So saying, she took up the plate in which she had 
brought his breakfast, and walked off to the house. 

After that the boy worked quickly. The pile of fuel 
Bonaparte had ordered him to pack was on the wall in 
half an hour. He then went to throw salt on the skins 
laid out to dry. Finding the pot empty, he went to the 
loft to refill it. 

Bonaparte Blenkins, whose door opened at the foot of 
the ladder, saw the boy go up, and stood in the doorway 
waiting for his return. He wanted his boots blacked. 
Doss, finding he could not follow his master up the round 
bars, sat patiently at the foot of the ladder. Presently 


88 


TEE STORY OF AN AFRICAE FARM. 


he looked up longingly, but no one appeared. Then 
Bonaparte looked up also, and began to call; but there 
was no answer. What could the boy be doing? The 
loft was an unknown land to Bonaparte. He had often 
wondered what was up there; he liked to know what was 
in all locked-up places and out-of-the-way corners, but 
he was afraid to climb the ladder. So Bonaparte looked 
up, and in the name of all that was tantalizing, ques- 
tioned what the boy did up there. The loft was used 
only as a lumber-room. What could the fellow find up 
there to keep him so long? 

Could the Boer-woman have beheld Waldo at that in- 
stant, any lingering doubt which might have remained in 
her mind as to the boy’s insanity would instantly have 
vanished. For, having filled the salt-pot, he proceeded 
to look for the box of books among the rubbish that filled 
the loft. Under a pile of sacks he found it — a rough 
packing-case, nailed up, but with one loose plank. He 
lifted that, and saw the even hacks of a row of books. 
He knelt down before the box, and ran his hand along its 
rough edges, as if to assure himself of its existence. He 
stuck his hand in among the books and pulled out two. 
He felt them, thrust his fingers in among the leaves, and 
crumpled them a little, as a lover feels the hair of his 
mistress. The fellow gloated over his treasure. He had 
had a dozen books in the course of his life; now here was 
a mine of them opened at his feet. After awhile he be- 
gan to read the titles, and now and again opened a book 
and read a sentence; but he was too excited to catch the 
meanings distinctly. At last he came to a dull, brown 
volume. He read the name, opened it in the center, and 
where he opened began to read. ’Twas a chapter on 
property that he fell upon — Communism, Fourierism, St! 
Simonism, in a work on Political Economy. He read 
down one page and turned over to the next; he read 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


89 


down that without changing his posture by an inch; he 
read the next, and the next, kneeling up all the while 
with the book in his hand, and his lips parted. 

All he read he did not fully understand; the thoughts 
were new to him; but this was the fellow’s startled joy 
in the book — the thoughts were his, they belonged to 
him. He had never thought them before, but they were 
his. 

He laughed silently and internally, with the still in- 
tensity of triumphant joy. 

So, then, all thinking creatures did not send up the 
one cry — ‘‘As thou, dear Lord, hast created things in the 
beginning, so are they now, so ought they to be, so will 
they be, world without end; and it doesn’t concern us 
what they are. Amen.” There were men to whom not 
only kopjes and stones were calling out imperatively, 
“What are we, and how came we here? Understand us, 
and know us;” but to whom even the old, old relations 
between man and man, and the customs of the ages 
called, and could not be made still and forgotten. 

The boy’s heavy body quivered with excitement. So 
he was not alone, not alone. He could not quite have 
told any one why he was so glad, and this warmth had 
come to him. His cheeks were burning. No wonder 
that Bonaparte called in vain, and Doss put his paws on 
the ladder, and whined till three-quarters of an hour had 
passed. At last the boy put the book in his breast and 
buttoned it tightly to him. He took up the salt-pot, 
and went to the top of the ladder. Bonaparte, with his 
hands folded under his coat-tails, looked up when he ap- 
peared, and accosted him. 

“You’ve been rather a long time up there, my lad,” 
he said, as the boy descended with a tremulous haste, 
most unlike his ordinary slow movements. “You didn’t 
hear me calling, I suppose?” 


90 


THE 8T0E7 OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


Bonaparte whisked the tails of his coat up and down as 
he looked at him. He, Bonaparte Blenkins, had eyes 
which were very far-seeing. He looked at the pot. It 
was rather a small pot to have taken three-quarters of an 
hour in the filling. He looked at the face. It was 
flushed. And yet, Tant’ Sannie kept no wine — he had 
not been drinking; his eyes were wide open and bright — 
he had not been sleeping; there was no girl up there — he 
had not been making love. Bonaparte looked at him 
sagaciously. What would account for the marvelous 
change in the boy coming down the ladder from the boy 
going up the ladder? One thing there was. Did not 
Tant’ Sannie keep in the loft “bultongs,’' and nice 
smoked sausages? There must be something nice to eat 
up there! Aha! that was i^!” 

Bonaparte was so interested in carrying out this chain 
of inductive reasoning that he quite forgot to have his 
boots blacked. 

He watched the boy shuffle off with the salt-pot under 
his arm; then he stood in his doorway and raised his eyes 
to the quiet blue sky, and audibly propounded this riddle 
to himself: 

‘‘What is the connection between the naked back of a 
certain boy with a greatcoat on and a salt-pot under his 
arm, and the tip of a horsewhip? Answer: No connec- 
tion at present, but there will be soon.” 

Bonaparte was so pleased with this sally of his wit that 
he chuckled a little and went to lie down on his bed. 

There was bread-baking that afternoon, and there was 
a fire lighted in the brick oven behind the house, and 
Tant’ Sannie had left the great wooden-elbowed chair in 
which she passed her life, and waddled out to look at it. 
Not far off was Waldo, who, having thrown a pail of food 
into the pigsty, now leaned over the sod-wall looking at 
the pigs. Half of the sty was dry, but the lower half was 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


91 


a pool of mud, on the edge of which the mother sow lay 
with closed eyes, her ten little ones sucking; the father 
pig, knee-deep in the mud, stood running his snout into 
a rotten pumpkin and wriggling his curled tail. 

Waldo wondered dreamily as he stared why they were 
pleasant to look at. Taken singly they were not beauti- 
ful; taken together they were. Was it not because there 
was a certain harmony about them? The old sow was 
suited to the little pigs, and the little pigs to their 
mother, the old boar to the rotten pumpkin, and all to 
the mud. They suggested the thought of nothing that 
should he added, of nothing that should be taken away. 
And, he wondered on vaguely, was not that the secret of 
all beauty, that you who look on — So he stood 
dreaming, and leaned further and further over the sod- 
wall, and looked at the pigs. 

All this time Bonaparte Blenkins was sloping down 
from the house in an aimless sort of way; but he kept 
one eye fixed on the pigsty, and each gyration brought 
him nearer to it. Waldo stood like a thing asleep when 
Bonaparte came close up to him. 

In old days, when a small boy, playing in an Irish 
street-gutter, he, Bonaparte, had been familiarly known 
among his comrades under the title of Tripping Ben; 
this, from the rare ease and dexterity with which, by 
merely projecting his foot, he could precipitate any un- 
fortunate companion on to the crown of his head. Years 
had elapsed, and Tripping Ben had become Bonaparte; 
but the old gift was in him still. He came close to the 
pigsty. All the defunct memories of his boyhood re- 
turned on him in a flood, as, with an adroit movement, 
he inserted his leg between Waldo and the wall and sent 
him over into the pigsty. 

The little pigs were startled at the strange intruder, 
and ran behind their mother, who sniifed at him. Tant’ 


92 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


Sannie smote her hands together and laughed; but Bona- 
parte was far from joining her. Lost in reverie, he 
gazed at the distant horizon. 

The sudden reversal of head and feet had thrown out 
the volume that Waldo carried in his breast. Bonaparte 
picked it up and began to inspect it, as the boy climbed 
slowly over the wall. He would have walked off sullenly, 
hut he wanted his book, and he waited until it should he 
given him. 

‘‘Ha!’’ said Bonaparte, raising his eyes from the leaves 
of the hook which he was examining, “I hope your coat 
has not been injured; it is of an elegant cut. An heir- 
loom, I presume, from your paternal grandfather? It 
looks nice now.” 

“Oh, Lord! oh. Lord!” cried Tant’ Sannie, laughing 
and holding her sides; “how the child looks — as though 
he thought the mud would never wash off. Oh, Lord, I 
shall die! You, Bonaparte, are the funniest man I ever 
saw.” 

Bonaparte Blenkins was now carefully inspecting the 
volume he had picked up. Among the subjects on which 
the darkness of his understanding had been enlightened 
during his youth. Political Economy had not been one. 
He was not, therefore, very clear as to what the nature 
of the book might be; and as the name of the writer, J. 
S. Mill, might, for anything he knew to the contrary, 
have belonged to a venerable member of the British and 
Foreign Bible Society, it by no means threw light upon 
the question. He was not in any way sure that Political 
Economy had nothing to do with the cheapest way of 
procuring clothing for the army and navy, which would 
be certainly both a political and economical subject. 

But Bonaparte soon came to a conclusion as to the 
nature of the book and its contents, by the application 
of a simple rule now largely acted upon, but which, be- 


TBE 8T0RY OF AF AFRICAN FARM. 


93 


coming universal, would save much thought and valuable 
time. It is of marvelous simplicity, of infinite utility, of 
universal applicability. It may easily be committed to 
memory and runs thus: 

Whenever you come into contact with any hook, per- 
son, or opinion of which you absolutely comprehend 
nothing, declare that book, person or opinion to be im- 
moral. Bespatter it, vituperate against it, strongly in- 
sist that any man or woman harboring it is a fool or a 
knave, or both. Carefully abstain from studying it. Do 
all that in you lies to annihilate that book, person, or 
opinion. 

Acting on this rule, so wide in its comprehensiveness, 
so beautifully simple in its working, Bonaparte ap- 
proached Tant’ Sannie with the book in his hand. 
Waldo came a step nearer, eying it like a dog whose 
young has fallen into evil hands. 

“This book,^’ said Bonaparte, “is not a fit and proper 
study for a young and immature mind.’^ 

Tant’ Sannie did not understand a word, and said: 

“What?’^ 

“This book,’’ said Bonaparte, bringing down his finger 
with energy on the cover, “this book is sleg, sleg, Davel, 
Davel /” 

Tant’ Sannie perceived from the gravity of his coun- 
tenance that it was no laughing matter. From the words 
sleg and Davel she understood that the book was evil, 
and had sonie connection with the prince who pulls the 
wires of evil over the whole earth. 

“Where did you get this book?” she asked, turning 
her twinkling little eyes on Waldo. “I wish that my 
legs may be as thin as an Englishman’s if it isn’t one of 
your father’s. He had more sins than all the Kaffers in 
Kafferland, for all that he pretended to be so good all 
those years, and to live without a wife because he was 


94 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


thinking of the one that was dead! As though ten dead 
wives could make up for one fat one with arms and legs!’’ 
cried Tant’ Sannie, snorting. 

“It was not my father’s book,” said the boy savagely. 
“I got it from your loft.” 

“My loft! my book! How dare you?” cried Tant’ 
Sannie. 

“It was Em’s father’s. She gave it me,” he muttered 
more sullenly. 

“Give it here. What is the name of it? What is it 
about?” she asked, putting her finger upon the title. 

Bonaparte understood. 

“Political Economy,” he said slowly. 

“Dear Lord!” said Tant’ Sannie “cannot one hear 
from the very sound what an ungodly book it is! One 
can hardly say the name. Haven’t we got curses enough 
on this farm?” cried Tant’ Sannie eloquently; “my 
best imported Merino ram dying of nobody knows what, 
and the short-horned cow casting her two calves, and the 
sheep eaten up with the scab and the drought? And is 
this a time to bring ungodly things about the place, to 
call down the vengeance of Almighty God to punish us 
more? Didn’t the minister tell me when I was confirmed 
not to read any book except my Bible and hymn-book, 
that the devil was in all the rest? And I never have 
read any other book,” said Tant’ Sannie with virtuous 
energy, “and I never will!” 

Waldo saw that the fate of his book was sealed, and 
turned sullenly on his heel. 

“So you will not* stay to hear what I say!” cried Tant’ 
Sannie. “There, take your Polity-golity-gominy, your 
devil’s book!” she cried, flinging the book at his head 
with much energy. 

It merely touched his forehead on one side and fell to 
the ground. 


THE STOMY OF AH AFRICAN FARM. 


95 


“Go on/’ she cried; “I know yon are going to talk to 
yourself. People who talk to themselves always talk to 
the devil. Go and tell him all about it. Go, go! run!” 
cried Tant’ Sannie. 

But the boy neither quickened nor slackened his pace, 
and passed sullenly round the back of the wagon-house. 

Books have been thrown at other heads before and 
since that summer afterrToon, by hands more white and 
delicate than those of the Boer-woman; but whether the 
result of the process has been in any case wholly satisfac- 
tory, may be questioned. We love that with a peculiar 
tenderness, we treasure it with a peculiar care, it has for 
us quite a fictitious value, for which we have suffered. 
If we may not carry it anywhere else we will carry it in 
our hearts, and always to the end. 

Bonaparte Blenkins went to pick up the volume, now 
loosened from its cover, while Tant’ Sannie pushed the 
stumps of wood further into the oven. Bonaparte came 
close to her, tapped the book knowingly, nodded, and 
looked at the fire. Tant’ Sannie comprehended, and, 
taking the volume from his hand, threw it into the back 
of the oven. It lay upon the heap of coals, smoked, 
flared, and blazed, and the “Political Economy” was no 
more — gone out of existence, like many another poor 
heretic of flesh and blood. 

Bonaparte grinned, and to watch the process brought 
his face so near the oven door that the white hair on his 
eyebrows got singed. He then inquired if there were 
any more in the loft. 

Learning that there were, he made signs indicative of 
taking up armfuls and flinging them into the fire. But 
Tant’ Sannie was dubious. The deceased Englishman 
had left all his personal effects specially to his child. It 
was all very well for Bonaparte to talk of burning the 
books. He had had his hair spiritually pulled, and she 
had no wish to repeat his experience. 


96 the story of AN AFRICAN FARM. 

She shook her head. Bonaparte was displeased. But 
then a happy thought occurred to him. He suggested 
that the key of the loft should henceforth be put into 
his own safe care and keeping — no one gaining possession 
of it without his permission. To this Tant’ Sannie 
readily assented, and the two walked lovingly to the 
house to look for it. 


CHAPTEE XII. 

HE BITES. 

Bonapaete Blehkins was riding home on the gray 
mare. He had ridden out that afternoon, partly for the 
benefit of his health, partly to maintain his character as 
overseer of the farm. As he rode on slowly he thought- 
fully touched the ears of the gray mare with his whip. 

“No, Bon, my hoy,’’ he addressed himself, “don’t pro- 
pose! You can’t marry for four years, on account of the 
will; then why propose? Wheedle her, tweedle her, 
teedle her, but don't let her make sure of you. When a 
woman,” said Bonaparte, sagely resting his finger against 
the side of his nose, “When a woman is sure of you she 
does what she likes with you; but when she isn’t, you 
do what you like with her. And I — ” said Bonaparte. 

Here he drew the horse up suddenly and looked. He 
was now close to the house, and leaning over the pigsty 
wall, in company with Em, who was showing her the 
pigs, was a strange female figure. It was the first visitor 
that had appeared on the farm since his arrival, and he 
looked at her with interest. She was a tall, pudgy girl 
of fifteen, weighing a hundred and fifty pounds, with 
baggy, pendulous cheeks and upturned nose. She strik- 
ingly resembled Tant’ Sannie, in form and feature, but 
her sleepy good eyes lacked that twinkle that dwelt in 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM, 


07 


the Boer-woman’s small orbs. She was attired in a 
bright green print, wore brass rings in her ears and glass 
beads round her neck, and was sucking the tip of her 
large finger as she looked at the pigs. 

‘‘Who is it that has come?’’ asked Bonaparte, when he 
stood drinking his coffee in the front room. 

“Why, my niece, to be sure,” said Tant’ Sannie, the 
Hottentot maid translating. “She’s the only daughter 
of my only brother Paul, and she’s come to visit me. 
She’ll be a nice mouthful to the man that can get her,” 
added Tant’ Sannie. “Her father’s got two thousand 
pounds in the green wagon box under his bed, and a 
farm, and five thousand sheep, and God Almighty knows 
how many goats and horses. They milk ten cows in mid- 
winter, and the young men are after her like fiies about 
a bowl of milk. She says she means to get married in 
four months, but she doesn’t yet know to whom. It was 
so with me when I was young,” said Tant’ Sannie; 
“I’ve sat up with the young men four and five nights a 
week. And they will come riding again, as soon as ever 
they know that the time’s up that the Englishman made 
me agree not to marry in.” 

The Boer-woman smirked complacently. 

“Where are you going to?” asked Tant’ Sannie pres- 
ently, seeing that Bonaparte rose. 

“Ha! I’m just going to the kraals; I’ll be in to supper,” 
said Bonaparte. 

Nevertheless, when he reached his own door he stopped 
and turned in there. Soon after he stood before the 
little glass, arrayed in his best white shirt with the little 
tucks, and shaving himself. He had on his very best 
trousers, and had heavily oiled the little fringe at the 
back of his head, which, however, refused to become 
darker. But what distressed him most was his nose — it 
was very red. He rubbed his finger and thumb on the 


m 


TEE BTORT OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


wall, and put a little whitewash on it; but, finding it 
rather made matters worse, he rubbed it off again. Then 
he looked carefully into his own eyes. They certainly 
were a little pulled down at the outer corners, which 
gave them the appearance of looking crosswise; but then 
they were a nice blue. So he put on his best coat, took 
up his stick, and went out to supper, feeling on the 
whole well satisfied. 

‘‘Aunt,’’ said Trana to Tant’ Sannie when that night 
they lay together in the great wooden bed, “why does 
the Englishman sigh so when he looks at me?” 

“Ha!” said Tant’ Sannie, who was half-asleep, but 
suddenly started wide awake. “It’s because he thinks 
you look like me. 1 tell you, Trana,” said Tant’ Sannie, 
“the man is mad with love of me. I told him the other 
night I couldn’t marry till Em was sixteen, or I’d lose all 
the sheep her father left me. And he talked about Jacob 
working seven years and seven years again for his wife. 
And of course he meant me,” said Tant’ Sannie pom- 
pously. “But he won’t get me so easily as he thinks; he’ll 
have to ask more than once.” 

“Oh!” said Trana, who was a lumpish girl and not much 
given to talking; but presently she added, “Aunt, why 
does the Englishman always knock against a person 
when he passes them?” 

“That’s because you are always in the way,” said Tant’ 
Sannie. 

“But, aunt,” said Trana presently, “I think he is very 
ugly.” 

“Phugh!” said Tant’ Sannie. “It’s only because we’re 
not accustomed to such noses in this country. In his 
country he says all the people have such noses, and the 
redder your nose is the higher you are. He’s of the 
family of the Queen Victoria, you know,” said Tant’ 
Sannie, wakening up with her subject; “and he doesn’t 


THE STOUT OF AN AFRICA^ FARM. 


99 


think anything of governors and church elders and such 
people ; they are nothing to him. When his aunt with 
the dropsy dies he’ll have money enough to buy all the 
farms in this district.” 

“Oh!” said Trana. That certainly made a difference. 

“Yes,” said Tant’ Sannie; “and he’s only forty-one, 
though you would take him to be sixty. And he told me 
last night the real reason of his baldness.” 

Tant’ Sannie then proceeded to relate how, at eighteen 
years of age, Bonaparte had courted a fair young lady. 
How a deadly rival, jealous of his verdant locks, his golden 
flowing hair, had, with a damnable and insinuating de- 
ception, made him a present of a pot of pomatum. How 
applying it in the evening, on rising in the morning he 
found his pillow strewn with the golden locks, and, looking 
into the glass, beheld the shining and smooth expanse 
which henceforth he must bear. The few remaining 
hairs were turned to a silvery whiteness, and the young 
lady married his rival. 

“And,” said Tant’ Sannie solemnly, “if it had not 
been for the grace of God, and reading of the Psalms, he 
says he would have killed himself. He says he could kill 
himself quite easily if he wants to marry a woman and 
she won’t.” 

“A le wereld,” said Trana; and then they went to 
sleep. 

Every one was lost in sleep soon; but from the window 
of the cabin the light streamed forth. It came from a 
dung Are, over which Waldo sat brooding. Hour after 
hour he sat there, now and again throwing a fresh lump 
of fuel on to the fire, which burned up bravely, and then 
sank into a great bed of red coals, which reflected them- 
selves in the boy’s eyes as he sat there brooding, brood- 
ing, brooding. At last, when the fire was blazing at its 
brightest, he rose suddenly and walked slowly to a beam 


100 


THE STOUT OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


from which an ox ‘‘reim” hung. Loosening it, he ran a 
noose in one end and then doubled it round his arm. 

‘‘Mine, mine! I have a right,’^ he muttered; and then 
something louder, “if I fall and am killed, so much the 
better!’^ 

He opened the door and went out into the starlight. 

He walked with his eyes bent upon the ground, but 
overhead it was one of those brilliant southern nights 
when every space so small that your hand might cover it 
shows fifty cold white points, and the Milky- Way is a 
belt of sharp frosted silver. He passed the door where 
Bonaparte lay dreaming of Trana and her wealth, and he 
mounted the ladder steps. From those he clambered 
with some difficulty on to the roof of the house. It was 
of old rotten thatch with a ridge of white plaster, and it 
crumbled away under his feet at every step. He trod as 
heavily as he could. So much the better if he fell. 

He knelt down when he got to the far gable, and be- 
gan to fasten his “reim’’ to the crumbling bricks. Below 
was the little window of the loft. With one end of the 
“reim’’ tied round the gable, the other end round his 
waist, how easy to slide down to it, and to open it, 
through one of the broken panes, and to go in, and to 
fill his arms with books, and to clamber up again. They 
had burned one book — he would have twenty. Every 
man’s hand was against his — his should be against every 
man’s. No one would help him — he would help himself. 

He lifted the black damp hair from his knit forehead, 
and looked round to cool his hot face. Then he say^ 
what a regal night it was. He knelt silently and looked 
up. A thousand eyes were looking down at him, bright 
and so cold. There was a laughing irony in them. 

“So hot, so bitter, so angry? Poor little mortal!” 

He was ashamed. He folded his arms, and sat on the 
ridge of the roof looking up at them. 


THE 8T0RT OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


101 


So f hot, so bitter, so angry 

It was as though a cold hand had been laid upon his 
throbbing forehead, and slowly they began to fade and 
grow dim. Tant’ Sannie and the burned book, Bona- 
parte and the broken machine, the box in tha loft, he 
himself sitting there — how small they all became! Even 
the grave over yonder. Those stars that shone on up 
above so quietly, they had seen a thousand such little exist- 
ences fight just so fiercely, flare up just so brightly, and 
go out; and they, the old, old stars, shone on forever. 

‘‘So hot, so angry, poor little soul?” they said. 

The “reim” slipped from his fingers; he sat with his 
arms folded, looking up. 

“We,” said the stars, “have seen the earth when it was 
young. We have seen small things creep out upon its 
surface — small things that prayed and loved and cried 
very loudly, and then crept under it again. But we,” 
said the stars, “are as old as the Unknown.” 

He leaned his chin against the palm of his hand and 
looked up at them. So long he sat there that bright 
stars set and new ones rose, and yet he sat on. 

Then at last he stood up, and began to loosen the 
“reim” from the gable. 

What did it matter about the books? The lust and 
the desire for them had died out. If they pleased to 
keep them from him they might. What matter? it was 
a very little thing. Why hate, and struggle, and fight? 
Let it be as it would. 

He twisted the “reim” round his arm and walked back 
along the ridge of the house. 

By this time Bonaparte Blenkins had finished his 
dream of Trana, and as he turned himself round for a 
fresh doze he heard the steps descending the ladder. 
His first impulse was to draw the blanket over his head 
and his legs under him, and to shout; but recollecting 


102 


THE STOUT OF AH AFRICAN FARM. 


that the door was locked and the window carefully 
bolted, he allowed his head slowly to crop out among the 
blankets, and listened intently. Whosoever it might be, 
there was no danger of their getting at Mm; so he clam- 
bered out of bed, and going on tiptoe to the door, ap- 
plied his eye to the keyhole. There was nothing to be 
seen; so walking to the window, he brought his face as 
close to the glass as his nose would allow. There was a 
figure just discernible. The lad was not trying to waik 
softly, and the heavy shuffling of the well-known “vel- 
schoens^^ could be clearly heard through the closed win- 
dow as they crossed the stones in the yard. Bonaparte 
listened till they had died away round the corner of the 
wagon-house; and, feeling that his bare legs were get- 
ting cold, he jumped back into bed again. 

‘‘What do you keep up in your loft?’’ inquired Bona- 
parte of the Boer-woman the next evening, pointing up- 
ward and elucidating his meaning by the addition of 
such Dutch words as he knew, for the lean Hottentot 
was gone home. . 

“Dried skins,” said the Boer-woman, “and empty 
bottles, and boxes, and sacks, and soap.” 

“You don’t keep any of your provisions there — sugar, 
now?” said Bonaparte, pointing to the sugar-basin and 
then up at the loft. 

Tant’ Sannie shook her head. 

“Only salt, and dried peaches.” 

“Dried peaches! Eh?” said Bonaparte. “Shut the 
door, my dear child, shut it tight,” he called out to Em, 
who stood in the dining-room. Then he leaned over the 
elbow of the sofa and brought his face as close as possible 
to the Boer-woman’s, and made signs of eating. Then he 
said something she did not comprehend; then said, 
“Waldo, Waldo, Waldo,” pointed up to the loft, and 
made signs of eating again. 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


103 


Now an inkling of his meaning dawned on the Boer- 
woman’s mind. To make it clearer, he moved his legs 
after the manner of one going up a ladder, appeared to 
he opening a door, masticated vigorously, said, ‘Teaches, 
peaches, peaches,” and appeared to be coming down the 
ladder. 

It was now evident to Tant’ Sannie that Waldo had 
been in her loft and eaten her peaches. 

To exemplify his own share in the proceedings, Bona- 
parte lay down on the sofa, and shutting his eyes tightly, 
said, “Night, night, night!” Then he sat up wildly, ap- 
pearing to be intently listening, mimicked with' his feet 
the coming down a ladder, and looked at Tant’ Sannie. 
This clearly showed how, roused in the night, he had 
discovered the theft. 

“He must have been a great fool to eat my peaches,” 
said Tant’ Sannie. “They are full of mites as a sheep- 
skin, and as hard as stones.” 

Bonaparte, fumbling in his pocket, did not even hear 
her remark, and took out from his coat-tail a little horse- 
whip, nicely rolled up. Bonaparte winked at the little 
rhinoceros horsewhip, at the Boer-woman, and then at 
the door. 

“Shall we call him — Waldo, Waldo?” he said. 

Tant’ Sannie nodded and giggled. There was some- 
thing so exceedingly humorous in the idea that he was 
going to beat the boy, though for her own part she did 
not see that the peaches were worth it. When the Kaffer 
maid came with the washtub she was sent to summon 
Waldo; and Bonaparte doubled up the little whip and 
put it in his pocket. Then he drew himself up, and pre- 
pared to act his important part with becoming gravity. 
Soon Waldo stood in the door, and took off his hat. 

“Come in, come in, my lad,” said Bonaparte, “and 
shut the door behind.” 


104 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


The boy came in and stood before them. 

‘‘You need not be so afraid, child/’ said Tant’ Sannie. 
“I was a child myself once. It’s no great harm if you 
have taken a few.” 

Bonaparte perceived that her remark was not in keep- 
ing with the nature of the proceedings, and of the little 
drama he intended to act. Pursing out his lips, and 
waving his hand, he solemnly addressed the boy. 

“Waldo, it grieves me beyond expression to have to 
summon you for so painful a purpose; but it is at the 
imperative call of duty, which I dare not evade. I do 
not state that frank and unreserved confession will 
obviate the necessity of chastisement, which if requisite 
shall be fully administered; but the nature of that chas- 
tisement may be mitigated by free and humble confes- 
sion. Waldo, answer me as you would your own father, 
in whose place I now stand to you; have you, or have you 
not, did you, or did you not, eat of the peaches in the 
loft?” 

“Say you took them, boy, say you took them, then he 
won’t beat you much,” said . the Dutch-woman good- 
naturedly, getting a little sorry for him. 

The boy raised his eyes slowly and fixed them vacantly 
upon her, then suddenly his face grew dark with blood. 

you haven’t got anything to say to us, my lad?” 
said Bonaparte, momentarily forgetting his dignity, and 
bending forward with a little snarl. “But what I mean 
is just this, my lad — when it takes a boy three-quarters 
of an hour to fill a salt-pot, and when at three o’clock in 
the morning he goes knocking about the doors of a loft, 
it’s natural to suppose there’s mischief in it. It’s cer- 
tain there is mischief in it; and where there’s mischief 
in it must be taken said Bonaparte, grinning into 
the boy’s face. Then, feeling that he had fallen from 
that high gravity which was as spice to the pudding, and 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


105 


the flavor of the whole little tragedy, he drew himself up. 
‘‘Waldo,^’ he said, ‘‘confess to me instantly, and without 
reserve, that you ate the peaches.’’ 

The boy’s face was white now. His eyes were on the 
ground, his hands doggedly clasped before him. 

“What, do you not intend to answer?” 

The boy looked up at them once from under his bent 
eyebrows, and then looked down again. 

“The creature looks as if all the devils in hell were in 
it,” cried Tant’ Sannie. “Say you took them, boy. 
Young things will be young things; I was older than you 
when I used to eat ‘bultong’ in my mother’s loft, and get 
the little niggers whipped for it. Say you took them.” 

But the boy said nothing. 

“I think a little solitary conflnement might perhaps be 
beneflcial,” said Bonaparte. “It will enable you, Waldo, 
to reflect on the enormity of the sin you have committed 
against our Father in heaven. And you may also think 
of the submission you owe to those who are older and 
wiser than you are, and whose duty it is to check and 
correct you.” 

Saying this, Bonaparte stood up and took down the key 
of the fuel-house, which hung on a nail against the wall. 

“Walk on, my boy,” said Bonaparte, pointing to the 
door; and as he followed him out he drew his mouth ex- 
pressively on one side, and made the lash 'of the little 
horsewhip stick out of his pocket and shake up and down. 

Tant’ Sannie felt half-sorry for the lad; but she could, 
not help laughing, it was always so funny when one was 
going to have a whipping, and it would do him good. 
Anyhow, he would forget all about it when the places 
were healed. Had not she been beaten many times and 
been all the better for it? 

Bonaparte took up a lighted candle that had been left 
burning on the kitchen table, and told the boy to walk 


lOG 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


before him. They went to the fuel-house. It was a 
little stone erection that jutted out from the side of the 
wagon-house. It was low and without a window, and the 
dried dung was piled in one corner, and the colfee-mill 
stood in another, fastened on the top of a short post 
about three feet high. Bonaparte took the padlock off 
the rough door. 

‘‘Walk in, my lad,’’ he said. 

Waldo obeyed sullenly; one place to him was much the 
same as another. He had no objection to being locked 
up. 

Bonaparte followed him in, and closed the door care- 
fully. He put the light down on the heap of dung in 
the corner, and quietly introduced his hand under his 
coat-tails, and drew slowly from his pocket the end of a 
rope, which he concealed behind him. 

“I’m very sorry, exceedingly sorry, Waldo, my lad, 
that you should have acted in this manner. It grieves 
me,” said Bonaparte. 

He moved round toward the boy’s back. He hardly 
liked the look in the fellow’s eyes, though he stood there 
motionless. If he should spring on him! 

So he drew the rope out very carefully, and shifted 
round to the wooden post. There was a slip-knot in one 
end of the rope, and a sudden movement drew the boy’s 
hands to his back and passed it round them. It was an 
instant’s work to drag it twice round the wooden post: 
then Bonaparte was safe. 

For a moment the boy struggled to free himself; then 
he knew that he was powerless, and stood still. 

“Horses that kick must have their legs tied,” said 
Bonaparte, as he passed the other end of the rope round 
the boy’s knees. “And now, my dear Waldo,” taking 
the whip out of his pocket, “I am going to beat you.” 

He paused for a moment. It was perfectly quiet; they 
could hear each other’s breath. 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM, 


107 


‘Chasten thy son while there is hope/ ’’ said Bona- 
parte, “ ‘and let not thy soul spare for his crying.’ Those 
are God’s words. I shall act as a father to yon, Waldo. 
I think we had better have your naked back.” 

He took out his pen-knife, and slit the shirt down from 
the shoulder to the waist. 

“Now,” said Bonaparte, “I hope the Lord will bless 
and sanctify to you what I am going to do to you.” 

The first cut ran from the shoulder across the middle 
of the back; the second fell exactly in the same place. 
A shudder passed through the boy’s frame. 

“Nice, eh?” said Bonaparte, peeping round into his 
face, speaking with a lisp, as though to a very little child. 
ehr 

But the eyes were black and lusterless, and seemed not 
to see him. When he had given sixteen Bonaparte 
paused in his work to wipe a little drop of blood from his 
whip. 

“Cold, eh? What makes you shiver so? Perhaps you 
would like to pull up your shirt? But I’ve not quite 
done yet.” 

When he had finished he wiped the whip again, and 
put it back in his pocket. He cut the rope through with 
his penknife, and then took up the light. 

“You don’t seem to have found your tongue yet. For- 
gotten how to cry?” said Bonaparte, patting him on the 
cheek. 

The boy looked up at him — not sullenly, not angrily. 
There was a wild, fitful terror in the eyes. Bonaparte 
made haste to go out and shut the door, and leave him alone 
in the darkness. He himself was afraid of that look. 

It was almost morning. Waldo lay with his face upon 
the ground at the foot of the fuel-lieap. There was a 
round hole near the top of the door, where a knot of 


108 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


wood had fallen out, and a stream of gray light came in 
through it. 

Ah, it was going to end at last. Nothing lasts forever, 
not even the night. How was it he had never thought 
of that before? For in all that long dark night he had 
been very strong, had never been tired, never felt pain, 
had run on and on, up and down, up and down; he had 
not dared to stand still, and he had not known it would 
end. He had been so strong that when he struck his 
head with all his force upon the stone wall it did not stun 
him nor pain him — only made him laugh. That was a 
dreadful night. 

When he clasped his hands frantically and prayed — ‘‘Oh, 
God, my beautiful God, my sweet God, once, only once, 
let me feel you near me to-night!” he could not feel him. 
He prayed aloud, very loud, and he got no answer; when 
he listened it was all quite quiet — like when the priests 
of Baal cried aloud to'' their god — “Oh, Baal, hear us! 
Oh, Baal, hear us!” but Baal was gone a-hunting. 

That was a long wild night, and wild thoughts came 
and went in it; but they left their marks behind them 
forever: for, as years cannot pass without leaving their 
traces behind them, neither can nights into which are 
forced the thoughts and sufferings of years. And now 
the dawn was coming, and at last he was very tired. He 
shivered and tried to draw the shirt up over his shoulders. 
They were getting stiff. He had never known they were 
cut in the night. He looked up at the white light that 
came in through the hole at the top of the door and 
shuddered. Then he turned his face back to the ground 
and slept again. 

Some hours later Bonaparte came toward the fuel- 
house with a lump of bread in his hand. He opened the 
door and peered in; then entered, and touched the fellow 
with his boot. Seeing that he breathed heavily, though 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


109 


he did not rouse, Bonaparte threw the bread down on the 
ground. He was alive, that was one thing. He bent 
over him, and carefully scratched open one of the cuts 
with the nail of his forefinger, examining with much in- 
terest his last night’s work. He would have to count his 
sheep himself that day; the hoy was literally cut up. He 
locked the door and went away again. 

“Oh, Lyndall,” said Em, entering the dining-room, 
and bathed in tears, that afternoon, “I have been beg- 
ging Bonaparte to let him out, and he won’t.” 

“The more you beg the more he will not,” said Lyn- 
dall. 

She was cutting out aprons on the table. 

“Oh, but it’s late, and I think they want to kill him,” 
said Em, weeping bitterly; and finding that no more con- 
solation was to be gained from her cousin, she went off 
blubbering — “I wonder you can cut out aprons when 
Waldo is shut up like that.” 

For ten minutes after she was gone Lyndall worked on 
quietly; then she folded up her stuff, rolled it tightly to- 
gether, and stood before the closed door of the sitting- 
room with her hands closely clasped. A flush rose to her 
face: she opened the door quickly, and walked in, went 
to the nail on which the key of the fuel-room hung. 
Bonaparte and Tant’ Sannie sat there and saw her. 

“What do you want?” they asked together. 

“This key,” she said, holding it up, and looking at 
them. 

“Do you mean her to have it?” said Tant’ Sannie in 
Dutch. 

“Why don’t you stop her?” asked Bonaparte in Eng- 
lish. 

“Why don’t you take it from her?” said Tant’ Sannie. 

So they looked at each other, talking, while Lyndall 
walked to the fuel-house with the key, her underlip bit- 
ten in. 


110 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


^‘Waldo/’ she said, as she helped him to stand up, and 
twisted his arm about her waist to support him,^“we will 
not be children always; we shall have the power, too, 
some day.^’ She kissed his naked shoulder with her soft 
little mouth. It was all the comfort her young soul 
could give him. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

HE MAKES LOVE. 

‘‘Here,’’ said Tant’ Sannie to her Hottentot maid, “I 
have been in this house four years, and never been up in 
the loft. Fatter women than I go up ladders; I will go 
up to-day and see what it is like, and put it to rights up 
there. You bring the little ladder and stand at the bot- 
tom.” 

“There’s one would be sorry if you were to fall,” said 
the Hottentot maid, leering at Bonaparte*’ s pipe, that lay 
on the table. 

“Hold your tongue, jade,” said her mistress, trying to 
conceal a pleased smile, “and go and fetch the ladder.” 

There was a never-used trapdoor at one end of the 
sitting-room; this the Hottentot maid pushed open, and 
setting the ladder against it, the Boer-woman with some 
danger and difficulty climbed into the loft. Then the 
Hottentot maid took the ladder away, as her husband was 
mending the wagon-house, and needed it; but the trap- 
door was left open. 

For a little while Tant’ Sannie poked about among the 
empty bottles and skins, and looked at the bag of peaches 
that Waldo was supposed to have liked so; then she sat 
down near the trapdoor beside a barrel of salt mutton. 
She found that the pieces of meat were much too large, 
and took out her clasp-knife to divide them. 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


Ill 


That was always the way when one left things to serv- 
ants, she grumbled to herself; but when once she was 
married to her husband Bonaparte it would not matter 
whether a sheep spoiled or no — when once his rich aunt 
with the dropsy was dead. She smiled as she dived her 
hand into the pickle-water. 

At that instant her niece entered the room below, 
closely followed by Bonaparte, with his head on one side, 
smiling mawkishly. Had Tant’ Sannie spoken at that 
moment the life of Bonaparte Blenkins would have run 
a wholly different course; as it was, she remained silent, 
and neither noticed the open trapdoor above their heads. 

‘^Sit there, my love,” said Bonaparte, motioning 
Trana into her aunt’s elbow-chair, and drawing another 
close up in front of it, in which he seated himself. 
There, put your feet upon the stove, too. Your aunt 
has gone out somewhere. Long have I waited for this 
auspicious event!” 

Trana, who understood not one word of English, sat 
down in the chair and wondered if this was one of the 
strange customs of other lands, that an old gentleman 
may bring his chair up to yours, and sit with his knees 
touching you. She had been five days in Bonaparte’s 
company, and feared the old man, and disliked his nose. 

‘^How long have I desired this moment!” said Bona- 
parte. ‘‘But that aged relative of thine is always casting 
her unhallowed shadow upon us. Look into my eyes, 
Trana.” 

Bonaparte knew that she comprehended not a syllable; 
but he understood that it is the eye, the tone, the action, 
and not at all the rational word, that touches the love- 
chords. He saw she changed color. 

“All night,” said Bonaparte, “I lie awake; I see 
naught but thy angelic countenance. I open my arms to 
receive thee — where art thou, where? Thou art not 


112 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


there!” said Bonaparte, suiting the action to the words, 
and spreading out his arms and drawing them to his 
breast. 

“Oh, please, I don’t understand,” said Trana, “I 
want to go away.” 

“Yes, yes,” said Bonaparte, leaning hack in his chair, 
to her great relief, and pressing his hands on his heart, 
“since first thy amethystine countenance was impressed 
here — what have I not suffered, what have I not felt? 
Oh, the pangs unspoken, burning as. an ardent coal in a 
fiery and uncontaminated bosom!” said Bonaparte, bend- 
ing forward again. 

“Dear Lor-d!” said Trana to herself, “how foolish I 
have been! The old man has a pain in his stomach, and 
now, as my aunt is out, he has come to me to help him.” 

She smiled kindly at Bonaparte, and pushing past him, 
went to the bedroom, quickly returning with a bottle of 
red drops in her hand. 

“They are very good for ‘benaawdheit;’ my mother 
always drinks them,” she said, holding the bottle out. 

The face in the trapdoor was a fiery red. Like a 
tiger-cat ready to spring Tant’ Sannie crouched, with 
the shoulder of mutton in her hand. Exactly beneath 
her stood Bonaparte. She rose and clasped with both 
arms the barrel of salt meat. 

“What, rose of the desert, nightingale of the colony, 
that with thine amorous lay whilest the lonesome night!” 
cried Bonaparte, seizing the hand that held the “von- 
licsense.” ‘‘Nay, struggle not! Fly as a stricken fawn 
into the arms that would embrace thee, thou ” 

Here a stream of cold pickle-water, heavy with ribs 
and shoulders, descending on his head abruptly termi- 
nated his speech. Half-blinded, Bonaparte looked up 
through the drops that hung from his eyelids, and saw 
the red face that looked down at him. With one wild 


THE STOUT OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


113 


cry he fled. As he passed out at the front door a shoul- 
der of mutton, well-directed, struck the black coat in the 
small of the back. 

‘‘Bring the ladder! bring the ladder! I will go after 
him!’’ cried the Boer-woman, as Bonaparte Blenkins 
wildly fled into the flelds. 

Late in the evening of the same day Waldo knelt on 
the floor of his cabin. He bathed the foot of his dog 
which had been pierced by a thorn. The bruises on his 
own back had had five days to heal in, and, except a little 
stiffness in his movements, there was nothing remarkable 
about the boy. 

The troubles of the young are soon over; they leave no 
external mark. If you wound the tree in its youth the 
bark will quickly cover the gash; but when the tree is 
very old, peeling the bark off, and looking carefully, you 
will see the scar there still. All that is buried is not 
dead. 

Waldo poured the warm milk over the little swollen 
foot; Doss lay very quiet, with tears in his eyes. Then 
there was a tap at the door. In an instant Doss looked 
wide awake, and winked the tears out from between his 
little lids. 

“Come in,” said Waldo, intent on his work; and 
slowly and cautiously the door opened. 

“Good-eveniug, Waldo, my boy,” said Bonaparte 
Blenkins in a mild voice, not venturing more than his 
nose within the door. “How are you this evening?” 

Doss growled and showed his little teeth, and tried to 
rise, but his paw hurt him so he whined. 

“I’m very tired, Waldo, my boy,” said Bonaparte 
plaintively. 

Doss showed his little white teeth again. His master 
went on with his work without looking round. There 


114 


THE STOMY OF AH AFRICAN FARM. 


are some people at whose hands it is best not to look. 
At last he said: 

‘‘Come in.” 

Bonaparte stepped cautiously a little way into the 
room, and left the door open behind him. He looked at 
the boy’s supper on the table. 

“Waldo, I’ve had nothing to eat all day — I’m very 
hungry,” he said. 

“Eat!” said Waldo after a moment, bending lower 
over his dog. 

“You won’t go and tell her that I am here, will you, 
Waldo?” said Bonaparte most uneasily. “You’ve heard 
how she used me, Waldo? I’ve been hadly treated; you’ll 
know yourself what it is some day when you can’t carry 
on a little conversation with a lady without having salt 
meat and pickle-water thrown at you. Waldo, look at 
me, do I look as a gentleman should?” 

But the boy neither looked up nor answered, and 
Bonaparte grew more uneasy. 

“You wouldn’t go and tell her that I am here, would 
you?” said Bonaparte whiningly. “There’s no knowing 
what she would do to me. I’ve such trust in you, Waldo; 
I’ve always thought you such a promising lad, though 
you mayn’t have known it, Waldo.” 

“Eat,” said the boy, “I shall say nothing.” 

Bonaparte, who knew the truth when another spoke it, 
closed the door, carefully putting on the button. Then 
he looked to see that the curtain of the window was 
closely pulled down, and seated himself at the table. He 
was soon munching the cold meat and bread. Waldo 
knelt on the floor, bathing the foot with hands which the 
dog licked lovingly. Once only he glanced at the table, 
and turned away quickly. 

“Ah, yes! I don’t wonder that you can’t look at me, 
Waldo,” said Bonaparte; “my condition would touch 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


115 


any heart. You see, the water was fatty, and that has 
made all the sand stick to me; and my hair,’^ said Bona- 
parte, tenderly touching the little fringe at the back of 
his head, “is all caked over like a little plank; you 
wouldn’t think it was hair at all,” said Bonaparte plain- 
tively. “I had to creep all along the stone walls for fear 
she’d see me, and with nothing on my head hut a red 
handkerchief tied under my chin, Waldo; and to hide 
in a ‘sloot’ the whole day, with not a mouthful of food, 
Waldo. And she gave me such a blow, just here,” said 
Bonaparte. 

He had cleared the plate of the last morsel, when 
Waldo rose and walked to the door. 

“Oh, Waldo, my dear boy, you are not going to call 
her,” said Bonaparte, rising anxiously. 

“I am going to sleep in the wagon,” said the boy, 
opening the door. 

“Oh, we can both sleep in this bed; there’s plenty of 
room. Do stay, my boy, please.” 

But Waldo stepped out. 

“It was such a little whip, Waldo,” said Bonaparte, 
following him deprecatingly. “I didn’t think it would 
hurt you so much. It was such a lUtle whip. I am 
sure you didn’t take the peaches. You aren’t going to 
call her, Waldo, are you?” 

But the boy walked off. 

Bonaparte waited till his figure had passed round the 
front of the wagon-house, and then slipped out. He hid 
himself round the corner, but kept peeping out to see 
who was coming. He felt sure the boy was gone to call 
Tant’ Sannie. His teeth chattered with inward cold as 
he looked round into the darkness and thought of the 
snakes that might bite him, and the dreadful things that 
might attack him, and the dead that might arise out of 


116 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


their graves if he slept out in the field all night. But 
more than an hour passed and no footstep approached. 

Then Bonaparte made his way hack to the cabin. He 
buttoned the door and put the table against it and, giv- 
ing the dog a kick to silence his whining when the foot 
throbbed, he climbed into bed. He did not put out the 
light, for fear of the ghost, but, worn out with the sorrows 
of the day, was soon asleep himself. 

About four o’clock Waldo, lying between the seats of 
the horse-wagon, was awakened by a gentle touch on his 
head. 

Sitting up, he espied Bonaparte looking through one 
of the windows with a lighted candle in his hand. 

‘H’m about to depart, my dear boy, before my enemies 
arise, and I could not leave without coming to bid you 
farewell,” said Bonaparte. 

Waldo looked at him. 

“I shall always think of you with affection,” said Bona- 
parte. “And there’s that old hat of yours, if you could 
let me have it for a keepsake ” 

“Take it,” said Waldo. 

“I thought you would say so, so I brought it with me,” 
said Bonaparte, putting it on. “The Lord bless you, my 
dear boy. You haven’t a few shillings — just a trifie you 
don’t need — have you?” 

“Take the two shillings that are in the broken vase.” 

“May the blessing of my God rest upon you, my dear 
child,” said Bonaparte; “may He guide and bless you. 
Give me your hand.” 

Waldo folded his arms closely, and lay down. 

“Farewell, adieu!” said Bonaparte. “May the bless- 
ing of my God and my father’s God rest on you, now and 
evermore.” 

With these words the head and nose withdrew them- 
selves, and the light vanished from the window, 


TEE STOR 7 OF AN AFRICAN FARM, I17 

After a few moments the boy, lying in the wagon, heard 
stealthy footsteps as they passed the wagon-house and 
made their way down the road. He listened as they grew 
fainter and fainter, and at last died away altogether! and 
from that night the footstep of Bonaparte Blenkins was 
heard no more at the old farm. 


END OF PAKT I, 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


118 




PART 11. 


“ And it was all play, and no one could tell what it had lived and 
worked for. A striving, and a striving, and an ending in nothing.” 


CHAPTER I. 

TIMES AND SEASONS. 

Waldo lay on his stomach on the sand. Since he 
prayed and howled to his God in the fuel-house three 
years had passed. 

They say that in the world to come time is not meas- 
ured out by months and years. Neither is it here. The 
souPs life has seasons of its own; periods not found in 
any calendar, times that years and months will not scan, 
but which are as deftly and sharply cut off from one 
another as the smoothly arranged years which the earth’s 
motion yields us. 

To stranger eyes these divisions are not evident; but * 
each, looking back at the little track his consciousness 
illuminates, sees it cut into distinct portions, whose 
boundaries are the termination of mental states. 

As man differs from man, so differ these souls’ years. 
The most material life is not devoid of them; the story of 
the most spiritual is told in them. And it may chance 
that some, looking back, see the past cut out after this 
fashion- 


THE J^TOET OF AH AFRICAN FARM. 


119 


I. 

The year of infancy, where from the shadowy back- 
ground of forgetfulness start out pictures of startling 
clearness, disconnected, but brightly colored, and indeli- 
bly printed in the mind. Much that follows fades, but 
the colors of those baby-pictures are permanent. 

There rises, perhaps, a warm summer’s evening; we 
are seated on the doorstep; we have yet the taste of the 
bread and milk in our mouth, and the red sunset is re- 
flected in our basin. 

Then there is a dark night, where, waking with a fear 
that there is some great being in the room, we run from 
our own bed to another, creep close to some large flgure, 
and are comforted. 

Then there is remembrance of the pride when, on some 
one’s shoulder, with our arms around their head, we ride 
to see the little pigs, the new little pigs with their curled 
tails and tiny snouts — where do they come from? 

Kemembrance of delight in the feel and smell of the 
flrst orange we ever see; of sorrow which makes us put 
up our lip, and cry hard, when one morning we run out 
to try and catch the dewdrops, and they melt and wet our 
little fingers; of almighty and despairing sorrow when we 
are lost behind the kraals, and cannot see the house any- 
where. 

And then one picture starts out more vividly than any. 

There has been a thunder-storm; the ground, as far as 
the eye can reach, is covered with white hail; the clouds 
are gone, and overhead a deep blue sky is showing; far 
off a great rainbow rests on the white earth. We, stand- 
ing in a window to look, feel the cool, unspeakably sweet 
wind blowing in on us, and a feeling of longing comes 
over us — unutterable longing, we cannot tell for what. 
We are so small, our head only reaches as high as the first 
three panes. We look at the white earth, and the rain- 


120 


THE STORY OF AH AFRICAN FARM, 


bow^ and the blue sky; and oh, we want it, we want — we 
do not know what. We cry as though our heart was 
broken. When one lifts our little body from the window 
we cannot tell what ails us. We run away to play. 

So looks the first year. 

II. 

Now the pictures become continuous and connected. 
Material things still rule, but the spiritual and intellec- 
tual take their places. 

In the dark night when we are afraid we pray and shut 
our eyes. We press our fingers very hard upon the lids, 
and see dark spots moving round and round, and we 
know they are heads and wings of angels sent to take 
care of us, seem dimly in the dark as they move round 
our bed. It is very consoling. 

In the day we learn our letters, and are troubled be- 
cause we cannot see why k-n-o-w should be know, and 
p-s-a-l-m psalm. They tell us it is so because it is so. 
We are not satisfied; we hate to learn, we like better to 
build little stone houses. We can build them as we 
please, and know the reason for them. 

Other joys too we have incomparably greater than even 
the building of stone houses. 

We are run through with a shudder of delight when in 
the red sand we come on one of those white wax fiowers 
that lie between their two green leaves fiat on the sand. 
We hardly dare pick them, but we feel compelled to do 
so; and we smell and smell till the delight becomes al- 
most pain. Afterward we pull the green leaves softly 
into pieces to see the silk threads run across. 

Beyond the ‘‘kopje” grow some pale-green, hairy- 
leaved bushes. We are so small, they meet over our 
head, and we sit among them, and kiss them, and they 
love us back; it seems as though they were alive. 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM, 


121 


One day we sit there and look up at the blue sky, and 
down at our fat little knees; and suddenly it strikes us, 
AVho are we? This /, what is it? We try to look in 
upon ourselves, and ourself heats hack upon ourself. 
Then we get up in great fear and run home as hard ag 
we can. We can’t tell any one what frightened us. We 
never quite lose that feeling of self again. 

III. 

And then a new time rises. We are seven years old. 
We can read now — read the Bible. Best of all we like 
the story of Elijah in his cave at Horeb, and the still 
small voice. 

One day, a notable one, we read on the ‘‘kopje,” and 
discovered the fifth chapter of Matthew, and read it all 
through. It is a new gold mine. Then we tuck the 
Bible under our arm and rush home. They didn’t 
know it was wicked to take your things again if some one 
took them, wicked to go to law, wicked to — ! We are 
quite breathless when we get to the house; we tell them 
we have discovererd a chapter they never heard of; we 
tell them what it says. The old wise people tell us they 
knew all about it. Our discovery is a mare’s-nest to 
them; but to us it is very real. The ten commandments 
and the old “Thou shalt” we have heard about long 
enough and don’t care about it; but this new law sets us 
on fire. 

We will deny ourself. Our little wagon that we have 
made, we give to the little Kaffers. We keep quiet when 
they throw sand at us (feeling, oh, so happy). We con- 
scientiously put the cracked teacup for ourselves at 
breakfast, and take the burnt roaster-cake. We save our 
money, and buy threepence of tobacco for the Hottentot 
maid who calls us names. We are exotically virtuous. 
At night we are profoundly religious; even the ticking 


122 


TEE STORY OF AE AFRICAN FARM. 


watch says, ^‘Eternity, eternity! hell, hell, hell!’^ and 
the silence tall^s of God, and the things that shall be. 

Occasionally, also, unpleasantly shrewd questions begin 
to be asked by some one, we know not who, who sits 
somewhere behind our shoulder. We get to know him 
better afterward. 

Now we carry the questions to the grown-up people, 
and they give us answers. We are more or less satisfied 
for the time. The grown-up people are very wise, and 
they say it was kind of God to make hell, and very loving 
of Him to send men there; and besides, he couldn’t help 
Himself; and they are very wise, we think, so we believe 
them — more or less. 


IV. 

Then a new time comes, of which the leading feature 
is, that the shrewd questions are asked louder. We carry 
them to the grown-up people; they answer us, and we 
are not satisfied. 

And now between us and the dear old world of the 
senses the spirit-world begins to peep in, and wholly 
clouds it over. What are the fiowers to us? They are 
fuel waiting for the great burning. We look at the 
walls of the farmhouse and the matter-of-fact sheep- 
kraals, with the merry sunshine playing over all; and do 
not see it. But we see a great white throne, and Him 
that sits on it. Around Him stand a great multitude 
that no man can number, harpers harping with their 
harps, a thousand times ten thousand and thousands of 
thousands. How white are their robes, washed in the 
blood of the Lamb! And the music rises higher, and 
rends the vault of heaven with its unutterable sweetness. 
And we, as we listen, ever and anon, as it sinks on the 
sweetest, lowest note, hear a groan of the damned from 
below. We shudder in the sunlight. 


THE 8T0RT OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


123 


‘‘The torment,^’ says Jeremy Taylor, whose sermons 
our father reads aloud in the evening, “comprises as 
many torments as the body of man has joints, sinews, 
arteries, etc., being caused by that penetrating and real 
fire of which this temporal fire is but a painted fire. What 
comparison will there be between burning for a hundred 
years’ space and to be burning without intermission as 
long as God is God!” 

We remember the sermon there in the sunlight. One 
comes and asks why we sit there nodding so moodily. Ah, 
they do not see what we see. 

“A moment’s time, a narrow space. 

Divides me from that heavenly place. 

Or shuts me up in hell,” 

So says Wesley’s hymn, which we sing evening by 
evening. What matter sunshine and walls, men and 
sheep? 

“The things which are seen are temporal, but the 
things which are not seen are eternal.” They are real. 

The Bible we bear always in our breast; its pages are 
our food; we learn to repeat it; we weep much, for in 
sunshine and in shade, in the early morning or the late 
evening, in the field or in the house, the devil walks with 
us. He comes to a real person, copper-colored face, 
head a little on one side, forehead knit, asking questions. 
Believe me, it were better to be followed by three deadly 
diseases than by him. He is never silenced — without 
mercy. Though the drops of blood stand out on your 
heart he will put his question. Softly he comes up (we 
are only a wee bit child): “Is it good of God to make hell? 
Was it kind of Him to let no one be forgiven unless 
Jesus Christ died?” 

Then he goes off, and leaves us writhing. Presently 
he comes back. 


124 


THE STOUT OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


‘‘Do you love Him?” waits a little. “Do you love 
Him? You will be lost if you don’t.” 

We say we try to. 

“But do you?” Then he goes off. 

It is nothing to him if we go quite mad with fear at 
our own wickedness. He asks on, the questioning devil; 
he cares nothing what he says. We long to tell some 
one that they may share our pain. We do not yet know 
that the cup of affliction is made with such a narrow 
mouth that only one lip can drink at a time, and that 
each man’s cup is made to match his lip. 

One day we try to tell some one. Then a grave head 
is shaken solemnly at us. We are wicked, very wicked, 
they say we ought not to have such thoughts. God is 
good, very good. We are wicked, very wicked. That is 
the comfort we get. Wicked! Oh, Lord! do we not 
know it? Is it not the sense of our own exceeding wick- 
edness that is drying up our young heart, filling it with 
sand, miaking all life a dust-bin for us? 

Wicked? We know it! Too vile to live, too vile to 
die, too vile to creep over this, God’s earth, and move 
among His believing men’. Hell is the one place for him 
who hates his master, and there we do not want to go. 
This is the comfort we get from the old. 

And once again we try to seek for comfort. This time 
great eyes look at us wondering, and lovely little lips say: 

“If it makes you so unhappy to think of these things, 
why do you not think of something else, and forget?” 

Forget! We turn away and shrink into ourself. For- 
get, and think of other things! Oh, God! do they not 
understand that the material world is but a film, through 
every pore of which God’s awful spirit-world is shining 
through on us? We keep as far from others as we can. 

One night, a rare clear moonlight night, we kneel in 
the window; every one else is asleep, but we kneel read- 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


125 


ing by the moonlight. Tt is a chapter in the prophets, 
telling how the chosen people of God shall be carried on 
the Gentiles’ shoulders. Surely the devil might leave us 
alone; there is not much to handle for him there. But 
presently he comes. 

“Is it right there should be a chosen people? To Him, 
who is father to all, should not all be dear?” 

How can we answer him? We were feeling so good till 
he came. We put our head down on the Bible and 
blister it with tears. Then we fold our hands over our 
head and pray, till our teeth grind together. Oh, that 
from that spirit-world, so real and yet so silent, that sur- 
rounds us, one word would come to guide us! We are 
left alone with this devil; and God does not whisper to 
us. Suddenly we seize the Bible, turning it round and 
round, and say hurriedly: 

“It will be God’s voice speaking to us; His voice as 
though we heard it.” 

We yearn for a token from the inexorably Silent One. 

We turn the book, put our finger down on a page, and 
bend to read by the moonlight. It is God’s answer. We 
tremble. 

“Then fourteen years after I went up again to Jeru- 
salem with Barnabas, and took Titus with me also.” 

For an instant our imagination seizes it; we are twist- 
ing, twirling, trying to make an allegory. The fourteen 
years are fourteen months; we are Paul and the devil is 
Barnabas, Titus is — Then a sudden loathing comes to 
us: we are liars and hypocrites, we are trying to deceive 
ourselves. What is Paul to us — and Jerusalem? We are 
Barnabas and Titus? We know not the men. Before 
we know we seize the book, swing it round our head, and 
fling it with all our might to the further end of the room. 
We put down our head again and weep. 

Youth and ignorance; is there anything else that can 


12G 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


weep so? It is as though the tears were drops of blood 
congealed beneath the eyelids; nothing else is like those 
tears. After a long time we are weak with crying, and 
lie silent, and by chance we knock against the wood that 
stops the broken pane. It falls. Upon our hot stiff face 
a sweet breath of wind blows. We raise our head, and 
with our swollen eyes look out at the beautiful still world, 
and the sweet night-wind blows in upon us, holy and 
gentle, like a loving breath from the lips of God. Over 
us a deep peace comes, a calm, still joy; the tears now 
flow readily and softly. Oh, the unutterable gladness! 
At last, at last we have found it! The 'peace with Ood.” 
^^The sense of sins forgiven.'^ ^ All doubt vanished, God’s 
voice in the soul, the Holy Spirit filling us! We feel 
Him! We feel Him! Oh, Jesus Christ, through you, 
through you this joy! We press our hands upon our 
breast and look upward with adoring gladness. Soft 
waves of bliss break through us. peace 'with God.” 

^^The sense of sins forgiven.” Methodists and revivalists 
say the words, and the mocking world shoots out its lip, 
and walks by smiling — “Hypocrite.” 

There are more fools and fewer hypocrites than the 
wise world dreams of. The hypocrite is rare as icebergs 
in the tropics; the fool common as buttercups beside a 
water-furrow: whether you go this way or that you tread 
on him; you dare not look at your own reflection in the 
water but you see one. There is no cant phrase, rotten 
with age, but it was the dress of a living body; none but 
at heart it signifies a real bodily or mental condition 
which some have passed through. 

After hours and nights of frenzied fear of the super- 
natural desire to appease the power above, a fierce quiver- 
ing excitement in every inch of nerve and blood vessel, 
there comes a time when nature cannot endure longer, 
and the spring long bent recoils. We sink down emas- 
culated. Up creeps the deadly delicious calm. 


THE 8T0R Y OF AH AFRtCAH FARM. 1^7 

“I have blotted out as a cloud thy sins, and as a thick 
cloud thy trespasses, and will remember them no more 
forever.” We weep with soft transporting joy, 

A few experience this; many imagine they experience 
it; one here and there lies about it.. In the main, “The 
peace with God; a sense of sins forgiven,” stands for a 
certain mental and physical reaction. Its reality those 
know who have felt it. 

And we, on that moonlight night, put down our head 
on the window, “Oh, God! we are happy, happy; thy 
child forever. Oh, thank you, God!” and we drop asleep. 

Next morning the Bible we kiss. We are God’s for- 
ever. We go out to work, and it goes happily all day, 
happily all night; but hardly so happily, not happily at 
all, the next day; and the next night the devil asks us, 
“Where is your Holy Spirit?” 

We cannot tell. 

So month by month, summer and winter, the old life 
goes on — reading, praying, weeping, praying. They tell 
us we become utterly stupid. We know it. Even the 
multiplication table we learned with so much care we for- 
got. The physical world recedes further and further 
from us. Truly we love' not the world, neither the 
things that are in it. Across the bounds of sleep our 
grief follows us. When we wake in the night we are sit- 
ting up in bed weeping bitterly, or find ourself outside 
in the moonlight, dressed, and walking up and down, and 
wringing our hands, and we cannot tell how we came 
there. So pass two years, as men reckon them. 

V. 

Then a new time. 

Before us there were three courses possible — to go mad, 
to die, to sleep. 

We take the latter course; or nature takes it for us. 


128 


THE 8T0RT OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


All things take rest in sleep; the beasts, birds, the 
very flowers close their eyes, and the streams are still in 
winter; all things take rest; then why not the human reason 
also? So the questioning devil in ns drops asleep, and in 
that sleep a beautiful dream rises for us. Though you 
hear all the dreams of men, you will hardly find a pret- 
tier one than ours. It ran so: 

In the center of all things is a Mighty Heart, which, 
having begotten all things, loves them; and, having borne 
them into life, beats with great throbs of love toward 
them. No death for His dear insects, no hell for His 
dear men, no burning up for His dear world — His own, 
own world that He has made. In the end all will he beau- 
tiful. Do not ask us how we make our dream tally with 
facts; the glory of a dream is this — that it despises, facts, 
and makes its own. Our dream saves us from going mad; 
that is enough. 

Its peculiar point of sweetness lay here. When the 
Mighty Heart’s yearning of love became too great for 
other expression, it shaped itself into the sweet Eose of 
heaven, the beloved Man-god. 

Jesus! you Jesus of our dream! how we loved you; no 
Bible tells of you as we knew you. Your sweet hands 
held ours fast; your sweet voice said always, “I am here, 
my loved one, not far off; put your arms about me, and 
hold fast.” 

We find Him in everything in those days. When the 
little weary lamb we drive home drags its feet, we seize 
on it, and carry it with its head against our face. His 
little lamb! We feel we have got Him. 

When the drunken Kaffer lies by the road in the sun 
we draw his blanket over his head, and put green branches 
of milk-hush on it. His Kaffer; why should the sun 
hurt him? 

In the evening, when the clouds lift themselves like 


THE 8TQRY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


129 


gates, and the red lights shine through them, we cry; 
for in such glory He will come, and the hands that ache 
to touch Him will hold Him, and we shall see the beau- 
tiful hair and eyes of our God. “Lift up your heads, 0, 
ye gates; and be ye lifted up, ye everlasting doors, and 
our King of glory shall come in!’^ 

The purple flowers, the little purple flowers, are His 
eyes, looking at us. We kiss them, and kneel alone on 
the flat, rejoiciug over them. And the wilderness and 
the solitary place shall be glad for Him, and the desert 
shall rejoice and blossom as a rose. 

If ever, in our tearful, joyful ecstasy, the poor, sleepy, 
half-dead devil should raise his head, we laugh at him. 
It is not his hour now. 

“If there should be a hell, after all!’’ he mutters. “If 
your God should be cruel! If there should be no God! 
If you should find out it is all imagination! If ” 

We laugh at him. When a man sits in the warm sun- 
shine do you ask him for proof of it? He feels — that is 
all. And we feel — that is all. We want no proof of our 
God. We feel, we feel! 

We do not believe in our God because the Bible tells 
us of Him. We believe in the Bible because He tells us 
of it. We feel Him, we feel Him, we feel — that is all! 
And the poor, half-swamped devil mutters: 

“But if the day should come when you do not feel?” 

And we laugh and cry him down. 

“It will never come — never,” and the poor devil slinks 
to sleep again, with his tail between his legs. Fierce as- 
sertion many times repeated is hard to stand against; 
only time separates the truth from the lie. So we dream 
on. 

One day we go with our father to town, to church. 
The townspeople rustle in their silks, and the men in 
their sleek cloth, and settle themselves in their pews, and 


I 


130 the STORT of ah AFRICAN FARM. 

the light shines in through the windows on the artificial 
flowers in the women’s bonnets. We have the same mis- 
erable feeling that we have in a shop where all the clerks 
are very smart. We wish our father hadn’t brought us 
to town, and we were out on the karroo. Then the man 
in the pulpit begins to preach. His text is ‘‘He that be- 
lieveth not shall be damned.” 

The day before the magistrate’s clerk, who was an 
atheist, has died in the street struck by lightning. 

The man in the pulpit mentions no name; but he talks 
of “The hand of God made visible among us.” He tells 
us how, when the white stroke fell, quivering and naked, 
the soul fled, robbed of his earthly filament, and lay at 
the footstool of God; how over its head has been poured 
out the wrath of the Mighty One, whose existence it has 
denied; and, quivering and terrified, it has fled to the 
everlasting shade. 

We, as we listen, half-start up; every drop of blood in 
our body has rushed to our head. He lies! he lies! he 
lies! That man in the pulpit lies! Will no one stop 
him? Have none of them heard — do none of them know, 
that when the poor, dark soul shut its eyes on earth it 
opened them in the still light of heaven? that there is no 
wrath where God’s face is? that if one could once creep 
to the footstool of God there is everlasting peace there, 
like the fresh stillness of the early morning? While the 
atheist lay wondering and afraid, God bent down and 
said: “My child, here I am — I, whom you have not 
known; I, whom you have not believed in; I am here. I 
sent My messenger, the white sheet-lightning, to call you 
home. I am here.” 

Then the poor soul turned to the light— its weakness 
and pain were gone forever. 

Have they not known, have they not heard, who it is 
rules? 


THE STORY OF AH AFRICA H FARM. 


131 


‘‘For a little moment have I hidden my face from thee; 
hut with everlasting kindness will I have mercy upon 
thee, saith the Lord thy Redeemer/’ 

We mutter on to ourselves, till some one pulls us 
violently by the arm to remind us we are in church. We 
see nothing but our own ideas. 

Presently every one turns to pray. There are six hun- 
dred souls lifting themselves to the Everlasting light. 

Behind us sit two pretty ladies; one hands her scent- 
bottle softly to the other, and a mother pulls down her 
little girl’s frock. One lady drops her handkerchief; a 
gentleman picks it up; she blushes. The women in the 
choir turn softly the leaves of their tune-books, to be 
ready when the praying is done. It is as though they 
thought more of the singing than the Everlasting Father. 
Oh, would it not be more worship of Him to sit alone in 
the karroo and kiss one little purple flower that he had 
made? Is it not mockery? Then the thought comes, 
“ What doest thou here., Elijah f” We who judge, what are 
we better than they ? — rather worse. Is it any excuse to 
say, “I am but a child and must come?” Does God 
allow any soul to step in between the spirit he made and 
himself? What do we there in that place, where all the 
words are lies against the All Father? Filled with 
horror, we turn and flee out of the place. On the pave- 
ment we smite our foot, and swear in our child’s soul 
never again to enter those places where men come to sing 
and pray. We are questioned afterward. Why was it 
we went out of the church? 

How can we explain? — we stand silent. Then we are 
pressed further, and we try to tell. Then a head is 
shaken solemnly at us. No one can think it wrong to go 
to the house of the Lord; it is the idle excuse of a wicked 
boy. When will we think seriously of our souls, and love 
going to church? We are wicked, very wicked. And we 


132 


THE STORY OF AH AFRICAN FARM. 


— we slink away and go alone to cry. Will it be always 
so? Whether we hate and doubt, or whether we believe 
and love, to our dearest are we to seem always wicked? 

We do not yet know that in the souPs search for truth 
’ the bitterness lies here, the striving cannot always hide 
itself among the thoughts; sooner or later it will clothe 
itself in outward action; then it steps in and divides be- 
tween the soul and what it loves. All things on earth have 
their price; and for truth we pay the dearest. We barter 
it for love and sympathy. The road to honor is paved 
with thorns; but on the path to truth, at every step you 
set your foot down on your own heart. ^ 

VI. 

Then at last a new time — the time of waking; short, 
sharp, and not pleasant, as wakings often are. 

Sleep and dreams exist on this condition — that no one 
wake the dreamer. 

And now life takes us up between her finger and 
thumb, shakes us furiously, till our poor nodding head is 
well-nigh rolled from our shoulders, and she sets us down 
a little hardly on the bare earth, bruised and sore, but 
preternaturally wide awake. 

We have said in our days of dreaming, “Injustice and 
wrong are a seeming; pain is. a shadow. Our God, He is 
real. He who made all things, and He only is Love.” 

Now life takes us by the neck and shows us a few other 
things — new-made graves with the red sand flying about 
them; eyes that we love with the worms eating them; evil 
men walking sleek and fat, the whole terrible hurly- 
burly of the thing called life— and she says, “What do 
you think of these?” We dare not say “Nothing.” We 
feel them; they are very real. But we try to lay our 
hands about and feel that other thing we felt before. In 
the dark night in the fuel-room we cry to our beautiful 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


133 


dream-god: ‘‘Oh, let us come near you, and lay our head 
against your feet. Now in our hour of need be near us.” 
But He is not there; He is gone away. The old ques- 
tioning devil is there. 

We must have been awakened sooner or later. The 
imagination cannot always triumph over reality, the desire 
over truth. We must have been awakened. If it was 
done a little sharply, what matter? it was done thor- 
oughly, and it had to be done. 

VII. 

And a new life begins for us — a new time, a life as cold 
as that of a man who sits on the pinnacle of an iceberg 
and sees the glittering crystals all about him. The old 
looks indeed like a long hot delirium, peopled with 
phantasies. The new is cold enough. 

Now we have no God. We have had two: the old God 
that our fathers handed down to us, that we hated, and 
never liked; the new one that we made for ourselves, 
that we loved; but now he has flitted away from us, and 
we see what he was made of — the shadow of our highest 
ideal, crowned and throned. Now we have no God. 

“The fool hath said in his heart. There is no God.” 
It may be so. Most things said or written have been the 
work of fools. 

This thing is certain — he is a fool who says, “No man 
hath said in his heart. There is no God.” 

It has been said many thousand times in hearts with 
profound bitterness of earnest faith. 

We do not cry and weep; we sit down with cold eyes 
and look at the world. We are not miserable. Why 
should we be? We eat and drink, and sleep all night; 
but the dead are not colder. 

And we say it slowly, but without sighing, “Yes, we 
see it now: there is no God.” 


134 


TEE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


And, we add, growing a little colder yet, ‘‘There is no 
justice. The ox dies in the yoke, beneath its master’s 
whip; it turns its anguish-filled eyes on the sunlight, but 
there is no sign of recompense to be made it. The black 
man is shot like a dog, and it goes well with the shooter. 
The innocent are accused and the accuser triumphs. If 
you will take the trouble to scratch the surface anywhere, 
you will see under the skin a sentient being writhing in 
impotent anguish. 

And, we say further, and our heart is as the heart of 
the dead for coldness, “There is no order; all things are 
driven about by a blind chance.” 

What a soul drinks in with its mother’s milk will not 
leave it in a day. From our earliest hour we have been 
taught that the thought of the heart, the shaping of the 
rain-cloud, the amount of wool that grows on a sheep’s 
hack, the length of a drought, and the growing of the 
corn, depend on nothing that moves immutable, at the 
heart of all things; but on the changeable will of a 
changeable being, whom our prayers can alter. To us, 
from the beginning, nature has been but a poor plastic 
thing, to he toyed with this way or that, as man happens 
to please his deity or not; to go to church or not; to say 
his prayers right or not; to travel on a Sunday or not. 
Was it possible for us in an instant to see Nature as she is 
— the fiowing vestment of an unchanging reality ? When 
the soul breaks free from the arms of a superstition, bits 
of the claws and talons break themselves off in him. It 
is not the work of a day to squeeze them out. 

And so, for us, the human-like driver and guide being 
gone, all existence, as we look out at it with our chilled, 
wondering eyes, is an aimless rise and swell of shifting 
waters. In all that weltering chaos we can see no spot so 
large as a man’s hand on which we may plant our foot. 

Whether a man believes in a human-like God or no is a 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


135 


small thing. , Whether he looks into the mental and 
physical world and sees no relation between cause and 
effect, no order, but a blind chance sporting, this is the 
mightiest fact that can be recorded in any spiritual exist- 
ence. It were almost a mercy to cut his throat, if indeed 
he does not do it for himself. 

We, however, do not cut our throats. To do so would 
imply some desire and feeling, and we have no desire and 
no feeling; we are only cold. We do not wish to live, 
and we do not wish to die. One day a snake curls itself 
round the waist of a Kaffer woman. We take it in our 
hand, swing it round and round, and fling it on the 
ground — dead. Every one looks at us with eyes of ad- 
miration. We almost laugh. Is it wonderful to risk that 
for which we care nothing? 

In truth, nothing matters. This dirty little world full 
of confusion, and the blue rag stretched overhead for a 
sky, is so low we could touch it with our hand. 

Existence is a great pot, and the old Fate who stirs it 
round cares nothing what rises to the top and what goes 
down, and laughs when the bubbles burst. And we do 
not care. Let it boil about. Why should we trouble 
ourselves? Nevertheless the physical sensations are real. 
Hunger hurts, and thirst, therefore we eat and drink; 
inaction pains us, therefore we work like galley-slaves. 
No one demands it, but we set ourselves to build a'^great 
dam in red sand beyond the graves. In the gray dawn 
before the sheep are let out we work at it. All day, 
while the young ostriches we tend feed about us, we work 
on through the fiercest heat. The people wonder what 
new spirit has seized us now. They do not know we are 
working for life. We bear the greatest stones, and feel a 
satisfaction when we stagger under them, and are hurt 
by a pang that shoots through our chest. While we eat 
our dinner we carry on baskets full of earth, as though 


136 


THE STORT OF AH AFRICAN FARM. 


the devil drove us. The Kaffer servants have a story 
that at night a witch and two white oxen come to help 
us. No wall, they say, could grow so quickly under one 
man’s hands. 

At night, alone in our cabin, we sit no more brooding 
over the fire. What should we think of now? All is 
emptiness. So we take the old arithmetic; and the 
multiplication table, which with so much pains we 
learned long ago and forgot directly, we learn now in a 
few hours, and never forget again. We take a strange 
satisfaction in working arithmetical problems. We pause 
in our building to cover the stones with figures and cal- 
culations. We save money for a Latin Grammar and 
Algebra, and carry them about in our pockets, poring 
over them as over our Bible of old. We have thought 
we were utterly stupid, incapable of remembering any- 
thing, of learning anything. Now we find that all is 
easy. Has a new soul crept into this old body, that even 
our intellectual faculties are changed? We marvel; not 
perceiving that what a man expends in prayer and ecstasy 
he cannot have over for acquiring knowledge. You 
never shed a tear, or create a beautiful image, or quiver 
with emotion, but you pay for it at the. practical calculat- 
ing end of your nature. You have just so much force: 
when the one channel runs over the other runs dry. 

And now we turn to Nature. All these years we have 
lived beside her, and we have never seen her; and now 
we open our eyes and look at her. 

The rocks have been to us a blur of brown; we bend 
over them, and the disorganized masses dissolve into a 
many-colored, many-shaped, carefully-arranged form of 
existence. Here masses of rainbow-tinted crystals, half- 
fused together; there bands of smooth gray and red 
methodically overlying each other. This rock here is 
covered with a delicate silver tracery, in some mineral. 


TEE STOR T OF AN AFRICAN FARM 


137 


resembling leaves and branches; there on the flat stone, 
on which we so often have sat to weep and pray, we look 
down, and see it covered with the fossil footprints of 
great birds, and the beautiful skeleton of a fish. We 
have often tried to picture in our mind what the fossiled 
remains of creatures must be like, and all the while we 
sat on them. We have been so blinded by thinking and 
feeling that we have never seen the world. 

The flat plain has been to us a reach of monotonous 
red. We look at it, and every handful of sand starts into 
life. That wonderful people, the ants, we learn to know; 
see them make war and peace, play and work, and build 
their huge palaces. And that smaller people we make 
acquaintance with, who live in the flowers. The bitto 
flower has been for us a mere blur of yellow; we find its 
heart composed of a hundred perfect flowers, the homes 
af the tiny black people with red stripes, who move in 
and out in that little yellow city. Every bluebell has its 
inhabitant. Every day the karroo shows us a new wonder 
sleeping in its teeming bosom. 

On our way back to work we pause and stand to see the 
ground-spider make its trap, bury itself in the sand, and 
then wait for the falling in of its enemy. 

Further on walks a horned beetle, and near him starts 
open the door of a spider, who peeps out carefully, and 
quickly pulls it down again. On a karroo-bush a green 
fly is laying her silver eggs. We carry them home,’ and 
see the shells pierced, the spotted grub come out, turn 
to a green fly, and flit away. We are not satisfied with 
what Nature shows us, and we see something for ourselves. 
Under the white hen we put a dozen eggs, and break one 
daily, to see the white spot wax into the chicken. We 
are not excited or enthusiastic about it; but a man is not 
to lay his throat open, he must think of something. So 
we plant seeds in rows on our dam-wall, and pull one up 


138 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


daily to see how it goes with them. Alladeen buried her 
wonderful stone, and a golden palace sprang up at her 
feet. We do far more. We put a brown seed in the 
earth, and a living thing starts out — starts upward — why, 
no more than Alladeen can we say — starts upward, and 
does not desist till it is higher than our heads, sparkling 
with dew in the early morning, glittering with yellow 
blossoms, shaking brown seeds with little embryo souls 
on to the ground. We look at it solemnly, from the time 
it consists of two leaves peeping above the ground and a 
soft white root, till we have to raise our faces to look at 
it; but we find no reason for that upward starting. 

We look into dead ducks and lambs. In the evening 
we carry them home, spread newspapers on the floor, and 
lie working with them till midnight. With a startled 
feeling near akin to ecstasy we open the lump of flesh 
called a heart, and find little doors and strings inside. 
We feel them, and put the heart away; but every now 
and then return to look, and to feel them again. Why 
we like them so we can hardly tell. 

A gander drowns itself in our dam. We take it out, 
and open it on the bank, and kneel looking at it. Above 
are the organs divided by delicate tissues; below are the 
intestines artistically curved in a spiral form, and each 
tier covered by a delicate network of blood-vessels stand- 
ing out red against the faint blue background. Each 
branch of the blood-vessels is comprised of a trunk, bifur- 
cating and rebifurcating into the most delicate, hair-like 
threads, symmetrically arranged. W e are struck with its 
singular beauty. And, moreover — and here we drop from 
our kneeling into a sitting posture — this also we remark : 
of that same exact shape and outline is our thorn-tree 
seen against the sky in midv-winter: of that shape also is 
delicate metallic tracery between our rocks; in that exact 
path does our water flow when without a furrow we lead 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM, 


139 


it from the dam; so shaped are the antlers of the horned 
beetle. How are these things related that such deep 
union should exist between them all? Is it chance? Or, 
are they not all the fine branches of one trunk, whose 
sap fiows through us all? That would explain it. We 
nod over the gander’s inside. 

This thing we call existence; is it not a something which 
has its roots far down below in the dark, and its branches 
stretching out into the immensity above, which we 
among the branches cannot see? Not a chance jungle; a 
living thing, a One. The thought gives us intense satis- 
faction, we cannot tell why. 

We nod over the gander; then start up suddenly, look 
into the blue sky, throw the dead gander and the refuse 
into the dam, and go to work again. 

And so, it comes to pass in time, that the earth ceases 
for us to be a weltering chaos. We walk in the great hall 
of life, looking up and round reverentially. Nothing is 
despicable — all is meaning-full; nothing is small — all is 
part of a whole, whose beginning and end we know not. 
The life that throbs in us is a beginning and end we 
know not. The life that throbs in us is a pulsation from 
it; too mighty for our comprehension, not too small. 

And so, it comes to pass at last, that whereas the sky 
was at first a small blue rag stretched out over us, and so 
low that our hands might touch it, pressing down on us, 
it raises itself into an immeasurable blue arch over our 
heads, and we begin to live again. 


CHAPTEK II. 

Waldo’s strakger. 

Waldo lay on his stomach on the red sand. The small 
ostriches he herded wandered about him, pecking at the 


140 


THE STORY OF AH AFRICAH FARM. 


food he had cut, or at pebbles and dry sticks. On his 
right lay the graves; to his left the dam; in his hand was 
a large wooden post covered with carvings, at which he 
worked. Doss lay before him basking in the winter sun- 
shine, and now and again casting an expectant glance at 
the corner of the nearest ostrich camp. The scrubby 
thorn-trees under which they lay yielded no shade, but 
none was needed in that glorious J une weather, when in 
the hottest part of the afternoon the sun was but pleas- 
antly warm; and the boy carved on, not looking up, yet 
conscious of the brown serene earth about him and the 
intensely blue sky above. 

Presently at the corner of the camp Em appeared, 
bearing a covered saucer in one hand and in the other a 
jug, with a cup in the top. She was grown into a pre- 
mature little old woman of sixteen, ridiculously fat. The 
jug and saucer she put down on the ground before the 
dog and his master and dropped down beside them her- 
self, panting and out of breath. 

“Waldo, as I came up the camps I met some one on 
horseback, and I do believe it must be the new man that 
is coming.’’ 

The new man was an Englishman to whom the Boer- 
woman had hired half the farm. 

“Hum!” said Waldo. 

“He is quite young,” said Em, holding her side, “and 
he has brown hair, and beard curling close to his face, 
and such dark blue eyes. And, Waldo, I was so ashamed! 
I was just looking back to see, you know, and he hap- 
pened just to be looking back too, and we looked right 
into each other’s faces; and he got red, and I got so red. 
I believe he is the new man.” 

“Yes,” said Waldo. 

“I must go now. Perhaps he has brought us letters 
from the post from Lyndall. You know she can’t stay 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


141 


at school much longer, she must come back soon. And 
the new man will have to stay with us till his house is 
built. I must get his room ready. Good-by!” 

She tripped off again, and Waldo carved on at his post. 
Doss lay with his nose close to the covered saucer, and 
smelled that some one had made nice little fat cakes that 
afternoon. Both were so intent on their occupation that 
not till a horse’s hoofs beat beside them in the sand did 
they look up to see a rider drawing in his steed. 

He was certainly not the stranger whom Em had de- 
scribed. A dark somewhat French-looking little man of 
twenty-eight, rather stout, with heavy, cloudy eyes and 
pointed mustaches. His horse was a fiery creature, well 
caparisoned; a highly finished saddle-bag hung from the 
saddle; the man’s hands were gloved, and he presented 
the appearance — an appearance rare on that farm — of a 
well-dressed gentleman. 

In an uncommonly melodious voice he inquired whether 
he might be allowed to remain there for an hour. Waldo 
directed him to the farmhouse, but the stranger declined. 
He would merely rest under the trees and give his horse 
water. He removed the saddle and Waldo led the animal 
away to the dam. When he returned the stranger had 
settled himself under the trees, with his back against the 
saddle. The boy offered him of the cakes. He declined, 
but took a draught from the jug; and Waldo lay down 
not far off and fell to work again. It mattered nothing 
if* cold eyes saw it. It was not his sheep-shearing ma- 
chine. With material loves, as with human, we go mad 
once, love out, and have done. We never get up the true 
enthusiasm a second time. This was but a thing he had 
made, labored over, loved and liked — nothing more— not 
his machine. 

The stranger forced himself lower down in the saddle 
and yawned. It was a drowsy afternoon, and he objected 


142 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


to travel in these out-of-the-world parts. He liked better 
civilized life, where at every hour of the day a man may 
look for his glass of wine, and his easy-chair, and paper; 
where at night he may lock himself into his room with 
his books and a bottle of brandy, and taste joys mental 
and physical. The world said of him — the all-knowing, 
omnipotent world, whom no locks can bar, who has the 
cat-like propensity of seeing best in the dark — the world 
said, that better than the books he loved the brandy, and 
better than hooks or brandy that which it had been better 
had he loved less. But for the world he cared nothing; 
he smiled blandly in its teeth. All life is a dream; if 
wine and philosophy and women keep the dream from 
becoming a nightmare, so much the better. It is all they 
are fit for, all they can be used for. There was another 
side to his life and thought; but of that the world knew 
nothing, and said nothing, as the way of the wise world 
is. The stranger looked from beneath his sleepy eyelids 
at the brown earth that stretched away, beautiful in spite 
of itself in that June sunshine; looked at the graves, the 
gables of the farmhouse showing over the stone walls of 
the camps, at the clownish fellow at his feet, and yawned. 
But he had drunk of the hind’s tea, and must say some- 
thing. 

‘^Your father’s place I presume?” he inquired sleepily. 

‘‘No; I am only a servant.” 

“Dutch people?” 

“Yes.” 

“And you like the life?” 

The boy hesitated. 

“On days like these.” 

“And why on these?” 

The boy waited. 

“They are very beautiful.” 

The stranger looked at him. It seemed that as the 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


143 


fellow’s dark eyes looked across the brown earth they 
kindled with an intense satisfaction; then they looked 
back at the carving. 

What had that creature, so coarse-clad and clownish, 
to do with the subtle joys of the weather? Himself, 
white-handed and delicate, might hear the music which 
shimmering sunshine and solitude play on the finely- 
strung chords of nature; hut that fellow! Was not the 
ear in that great body too gross for such delicate mutter- 
ings? 

Presently he said: 

“May I see what you work at?” 

The fellow handed his wooden post. It was by no 
means lovely. The men and birds were almost grotesque 
in their labored resemblance to nature, and bore signs of 
patient thought. The stranger turned the thing over on 
his knee. 

“Where did you learn this work?” 

“I taught myself,” 

“And these zigzag lines represent 

“A mountain.” 

The stranger looked. 

“It has some meaning, has it not?” 

The boy muttered confusedly. 

“Only things.” 

The questioner looked down at him — the huge, un- 
wiedly figure, in size a man’s, in right of his childlike 
features and curling hair a child’s; and it hurt him — it 
attracted him and it hurt him. It was something 
between pity and sympathy. 

“How long have you worked at this?” 

“Nine months.” 

From his pocket the stranger drew his pocketbook and 
took something from it. He could fasten the post to his 
horse in some way, and throw it away in the sand when 
at a safe distance. 


144 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


‘‘Will you take this for your carving?” 

The boy glanced at the five-pound note and shook his 
head. 

“No; I cannot.” 

“You think it is worth more?” asked the stranger with 
a little sneer. 

He pointed with his thumb to a grave. 

“No; it is for him.” 

“And who is there?” asked the stranger. 

“My father.” 

The man silently returned the note to his pocketbook, 
and gave the carving to the boy; and drawing his hat 
over his eyes, composed himself to sleep. Not being able 
to do so, after awhile he glanced over the fellow’s shoul- 
der to watch him work. The boy carved letters into the 
back. 

“If,” said the stranger, with his melodious voice, rich 
with a sweetness that never showed itself in the clouded 
eyes — for sweetness will linger on in the voice long after 
it has died out in the eyes — “if for- such a purpose, why 
write that upon it?” 

The boy glanced round at him, but made no answer. 
He had almost forgotten his presence. 

“You surely believe,” said the stranger, “that some 
day, sooner or later, these graves will open, and those 
Boer-uncles with their wives walk about here in the red 
sand, with the very fleshly legs with which they went to 
sleep? Then why say, ‘He sleeps forever?’ You believe 
he will stand up again?” 

“Do you?” asked the boy, lifting for an instant his 
heavy eyes to the stranger’s face. 

Half taken aback, the stranger laughed. It was as 
though a curious little tadpole which he held under his 
glass should suddenly lift its tail and begin to question 
him. 


TUB STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


145 


“I? — no.” He laughed his short thick laugh. ‘H am 
a man who believes nothing, hopes notliing, fears noth- 
ing, feels nothing. I am beyond the pale of humanity; 
no criterion of what you should be who live here among 
your ostriches and bushes.” 

The next moment the stranger, was surprised by a sud- 
den movement on the part of the fellow, which brought 
him close to the stranger^s feet. Soon after he raised his 
carving and laid it across the man’s knee. 

‘‘Yes, 1 will tell you,” he muttered; “I will tell you all 
about it.” 

He put his finger on the grotesque little mannikin at 
the bottom (ah! that man who believed nothing, hoped 
nothing, felt nothing; lioiv he loved him !), and with eager 
finger the fellow moved upward, explaining over fantastic 
figures and mountains, to the crowning bird from whose 
wing dropped a feather. At the end he spoke with 
broken breath — short words, like one who utters things 
of mighty import. 

The stranger watched more the face than the carving; 
and there was now and then a show of white teeth beneath 
the mustaches as he listened. 

“I think,” he said blandly, when the boy had done, 
“that I partly understand you. It is something after 
this fashion, is it not?” (He smiled.) “In certain val- 
leys there was a hunter.” (He touched the grotesque 
little figure at the bottom.) “Day by day he went to 
hunt for wild-fowl in the woods; and it chanced that once 
he stood on the shores of a large lake. While he stood 
waiting in the rushes for the coming of the birds, a great 
shadow fell on him, and in the water he saw a refiection. 
He looked up to the sky; but the thing was gone. Then 
a burning desire came over him to see once again that re- 
flection in the water, and all day he watched and waited; 
but night came and it had not returned. Then he went 


146 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


home with his empty bag, moody and silent. His com- 
rades came questioning about him to know the reason, 
but he answered them nothing; he sat alone and brooded. 
Then his friend came to him, and to him he spoke. 

‘T have seen to-day, he said, that which I never saw 
before — a vast white bird, with silver wings outstretched, 
sailing in the everlasting blue. And now it is as though 
a great fire burned within my breast. It was but a sheen, 
a shimmer, a reflection in the water; but now I desire 
nothing more on earth than to hold her. 

“His friend laughed. 

“It was but a beam playing on the water, or the shadow 
of your own head. To-morrow you will forget her,’’ he 
said. 

But to-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow the 
hunter walked alone. He sought in the forest and in the 
woods, by the lakes and among the rushes, but he could 
not find her. He shot no more wild fowl; what were they 
to him? 

“What ails him?” said his comrades. 

“He is mad,” said one. 

“No; but he is worse,” said another; “he would see 
that which none of us have seen, and make himself a 
wonder.” 

“Come, let us forswear his company,” said all. 

So the hunter walked alone. 

One night, as he wandered in the shade, very heart- 
sore and weeping, an old man stood before him, grander 
and taller than the sons of men. 

“Who are you?” asked the hunter. 

“I am Wisdom,” answered the old man; “but some 
men call me Knowledge. All my life I have grown in 
these valleys; but no man sees me till he has sorrowed 
much. The eyes must be washed with tears that are to 
behold me; and, according as a man has suffered, I speak.” 


THE STORY OF AH AFRICAH FARM. 


147 


And the hunter cried: 

‘‘Oh, you who have lived here so long, tell me, what is 
that great wild bird I have seen sailing in the blue ? They 
would have me believe she is a dream; the shadow of my 
own head/’ 

The old man smiled. 

“Her name is Truth. He who has once seen her never 
rests again. Till death he desires her.” 

And the hunter cried: 

“Oh, tell me where I may find her.” 

But the old man said: 

“You have not suffered enough,” and went. 

Then the hunter took from his breast the shuttle of 
Imagination, and wound on it the thread of his Wishes; 
and all night he sat and wove a net. 

In the morning he spread the golden net upon the 
ground, and into it he threw a few grains of credulity, 
which his father had left him, and which he kept in his 
breast-pocket. They were like white puff-balls, and 
when you trod on them a brown dust flew out. Then he 
sat by to see what would happen. The first that came 
into the net was a snow-white bird, with dove’s eyes, and 
he sang a beautiful song — “A human-God! a human- 
God! ahuman-God!” it sang. The second that came was 
black and mystical, withdark, lovely eyes, that looked into 
the depths of your soul, and he sang only this — “Immor- 
tality!” 

And the hunter took them both in his arms, for he 
said: 

“They are surely of the beautiful family of Truth.” 

Then came another, green and gold, who sang in a 
shrill voice, like one crying in the market-place — “Ee- 
ward after Death! Eeward after Death!” 

And he said: 

“You are not so fair; but you are fair too,” and he 
took it. 


148 


THE STOBT OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


And others came, brightly colored, singing pleasant 
songs, till all the grains were finished. And the hunter 
gathered all his birds together, and built a strong iron 
cage called a new creed, and put all his birds in it. 

Then the people came about dancing and singing. 

“Oh, happy hunter!’’ they cried. “Oh, wonderful 
man! Oh, delightful birds! Oh, lovely songs!” 

No one asked where the birds had come from, nor how 
they had been caught; hut they danced and sang before 
them. And the hunter too was glad, for he said: 

“Surely Truth is among them. In time she will 
moult her feathers, and I shall see her snow-white form.” 

But the time passed, and the people sang and danced; 
but the hunter’s heart grew heavy. He crept alone, as 
of old, to weep; the terrible desire had awakened again 
in his breast. One day, as he sat alone weeping, it 
chanced that Wisdom met him. He told the old man 
what he had done. 

And Wisdom smiled sadly. 

“Many men,” he said, “have spread that net for Truth; 
hut they have never found her. On the grains of credu- 
lity she will not feed; in the net of wishes her feet can- 
not he held; in the air of these valleys she will not 
breathe. The birds you have caught *are of the brood of 
Lies. Lovely and beautiful, hut still lies; Truth knows 
them not.” 

And the hunter cried out in bitterness: 

“And must I then sit still, to be devoured of this great 
burning?” 

And the old man said: 

“Listen, and in that you have suffered much and wept 
much, I will tell you what I know. He who sets out to 
search for Truth m'ust leave these valleys of superstition 
forever, taking with him not one shred that has belonged 
to them. Alone he must wander down into the Land of 


THE STOR Y OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


149 


Absolute Negation and Denial; he must abide there; he 
must resist temptation; when the light breaks he must 
arise and follow it into the country of dry sunshine. The 
mountains of stern reality will rise before him; he must 
climb them; heyond them lies Truth.” 

‘‘And he will hold her fast! he will hold her in his 
hands!” the hunter cried. 

Wisdom shook his head. 

“He will never see her, never hold her. The time is 
not yet.” 

“Then there is no hope?” cried the hunter. 

“There is this,” said Wisdom: “Some men have 
climbed on those mountains; circle above circle of bare 
rock they have scaled; and, wandering there, in those 
high regions, some have chanced to pick up on the 
ground one white silver feather, dropped from the wing 
of Truth. And it shall come to pass,” said the old man, 
raising himself prophetically and pointing with his finger 
to the sky, “it shall come to pass, that when enough of 
those silver feathers shall have been gathered by the 
hands of men, and shall have been woven into a cord, and 
the cord into a net, that in that net Truth may be cap- 
tured. Nothing hut Truth can hold TruthN 

The hunter arose. “I will go,” he said. 

But Wisdom detained him. 

“Mark you well — who leaves these valleys returns 

to them. Though he should weep tears of blood seven 
days and nights upon the confines, he can never put his 
foot across them. Left — they are left forever. Upon the 
road which you would travel there is no reward offered. 
Who goes, goes freely — for the great love that is in him. 
The work is his reward.” 

“I go,” said the hunter; “but upon the mountains, 
tell me, which path shall I take?” 

“I am the child of The-Accumulated-Knowledge-of- 


150 


THE STORY OF AH AFRICAN FARM. 


Ages,” said the man; can walk only where many men 
have trodden. On these mountains few feet have passed; 
each man strikes out a path for himself. He goes at his 
own peril: my voice he hears no more. I may follow 
after him, but cannot go before him.’^ 

Then Knowledge vanished. 

And the hunter turned. He went to his cage, and 
with his hands broke down the bars, and the jagged iron 
tore his flesh. It is sometimes easier to build than to 
break. 

One by one he took his plumed birds and let them fly. 
But when he came to his dark -plumed bird he held it, 
and looked into its beautiful eyes, and the bird uttered 
its low, deep cry — “Immortality!” 

And he said quickly: “I cannot part with it. It is not 
heavy; it eats no food. I will hide it in my breast; I 
will take it with me.” And he buried it there and cov- 
ered it over with his cloak. 

But the thing he had hidden grew heavier, heavier, 
heavier — till it lay on his breast like lead. He could not 
move with it. He could not leave those valleys with it. 
Then again he took it out and looked at it. 

“Oh, my beautiful! my heart’s own!” he cried, “may 
I not keep you?” 

He opened his hands sadly. 

“Gro!” he said. “It may happen that in Truth’s song 
one note is like yours; but I shall never hear it.” 

Sadly he opened his hand, and the bird flew from him 
forever. 

Then from the shuttle of imagination he took the 
thread of his wishes, and threw it on the ground; and 
the empty shuttle he put into his breast, for the thread 
was made in those valleys, but the shuttle came from an 
unknown country. He turned to go, but now the pieople 
came about him^ howling. 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


151 


‘‘Fool, hound, demented lunatic!’’ they cried. “How 
dared you break your cage and let the birds fly?” 

The hunter spoke; but they would not hear him. 

“Truth! who is she? Can you eat her? can you drink 
her? Who has ever seen her? Your birds were real: all 
could hear them sing! Oh, fool! vile reptile! atheist!” 
they cried, “you pollute the air.” 

“Come, let us take up 'stones and stone him,” cried 
some. 

“What affair is it of ours?” said others. “Let the 
idiot go,” and went away. But the rest gathered up 
stones and mud and threw at him. At last, when he 
was bruised and cut, the hunter crept away into the 
woods. And it was evening about him.” 

At every word the stranger spoke the fellow’s eyes 
flashed back on him — yes, and yes, and yes! The 
strange^ smiled. It was almost worth the trouble of 
exerting one’s self, even on a lazy afternoon, to win those 
passionate flashes, more thirsty and desiring than the 
love-glances of a woman. 

“He wandered on and on,” said the stranger, “and 
the shade grew deeper. He was on the borders now of 
the land where it is always night. Then he stepped 
into it, and there was no light there. With his hands he 
groped; but each branch as he touched it broke off, and 
the earth was covered with cinders. At every step his 
foot sank in, and a fine cloud of impalpable ashes flew up 
into his face; and it was dark. So he sat down upon a 
stone and buried his face in his hands, to wait in the 
Land of Negation and Denial till the light came. 

And it was night in his heart also. 

Then from the marshes to his right and left cold mists 
arose and closed about him. A fine, imperceptible rain 
fell in the dark, and great drops gathered on his hair and 
clothes. His heart beat slowly, and a numbness crept 


152 


THE STOUT OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


through all his limbs. Then, looking up, two merry 
whisp lights came dancing. He lifted his head to look 
at them. Nearer, nearer they came. So warm, so 
bright, they danced like stars of fire. They stood before 
him at last. From the center of the radiating flame in 
one looked out a woman’s face, laughing, dimpled, with 
streaming yellow hair. In the center of the other were 
merry laughing ripples, like the bubbles on a glass of 
wine. They danced before him. 

“Who are you,” asked the hunter, “who alone come 
to me in my solitude and darkness?” 

“We are the twins Sensuality,” they cried. “Our 
father’s name is Human-Nature, and our mother’s name 
is Excess. We are as old as the hills and rivers, as old as 
the first man; but we never die,” they laughed. 

“Oh, let me wrap my arms about you!” cried the 
first; “they are soft and warm. Your heart is frozen 
now, but I will make it beat. Oh, come to me!” 

“I will pour my hot life into you,” said the second; 
“your brain is numb, and your limbs are dead now; but 
they shall live with a fierce free life. Oh, let me pour 
it in!” 

“Oh, follow us,” they cried, “and live with us. 
Nobler hearts than yours have sat here in this darkness 
to wait, and they have come to us and we to them; and 
they have never left us, never. All else is a delusion, 
but ive are real, we are real, we are real. Truth is a 
shadow; the valleys of superstition are a farce; the earth 
is of ashes, the trees all rotten; but we — feel us — we live! 
You cannot doubt us. Feel us, how warm we are! Oh, 
come to us! Come with us!” 

Nearer and nearer round his head they hovered, and 
the cold drops melted on his forehead. The bright light 
shot into his eyes, dazzling him, and the frozen blood 
began to run. And he said* 


THE STOR r OF AH AFRICAN FARM. 


153 


“Yes; why should I die here in this awful darkness? 
They are warm, they melt my frozen blood!^^ and he 
stretched out his hands to take them. 

Then in a moment there arose before him the image of 
the thing he had loved, and his hand dropped to his side. 

‘‘Oh, come to us!’’ they cried. 

But he buried his face. 

“You dazzle my eyes,” he cried, “you make my heart 
warm; but you cannot give me what I desire. I will 
wait here — wait till I die. Go!” 

He covered his face with his hands and would not 
listen; and when he looked up again they were two 
twinkling stars, that vanished in the distance. 

And the long, long night rolled on. 

All who leave the valley of superstition pass through 
that dark land; but some go through it in a few days, 
some linger there for months, some for years, and some 
die there.” 

The boy had crept closer; his hot breath almost touched 
the stranger’s hand; a mystic wonder filled his eyes. 

“At last for the hunter a faint light played along the 
horizon, and he rose to follow it; and he reached that 
light at last, and stepped into the broad sunshine. Then 
before him rose the almighty mountains of Dry-facts and 
Eealities. The clear sunshine played on them, and the 
tops were lost in the clouds. At the foot many paths 
ran up. An exultant cry burst from the hunter. He 
chose the straightest and began to climb; and the rocks 
and ridges resounded with his song. They had exagger- 
ated; after all, it was not so high, nor was the road so 
steep! A few days, a few weeks, a few months at most, 
and then the top! Not one feather only would he pick 
up; he would gather all that other men had found — 
weave the net — capture Truth — hold her fast — touch her 
with his hands — clasp her! 


154 the STOR 7 OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 

He laughed in the merry sunshine, and sang loud. 
Victory was very near. Nevertheless, after awhile the 
path grew steeper. He needed all his breath for climb- 
ing, and the singing died away. On the right and left 
rose huge rocks, devoid of lichen or moss, and in the 
lava-like earth chasms yawned. Here and there he saw 
a sheen of white bones. Now too the path began to grow 
less and less marked; then it became a mere trace, with a 
footmark here and there; then it ceased altogether. He 
sang no more, hut struck forth a path for himself, until 
it reached a mighty wall of rock, smooth and without 
break, stretching as far as the eye could see “I will 
rear a stair against it; and, once this wall climbed, I shall 
he almost there,’’ he said bravely; and worked. With 
his shuttle of imagination he dug out stones; but half of 
them would not fit, and half a month’s work would roll 
down because those below were ill chosen. But the 
hunter worked on, saying always to himself, “Once this 
wall climbed, I shall be almost there. This great work 
ended!” 

At last he came out upon the top, and he looked about 
him. Far below rolled the white mist over the valleys of 
superstition, and above him towered the mountains. 
They had seemed low before; they were of an immeasur- 
able height now, from crown to foundation surrounded 
by walls of rock, that rose tier above tier in mighty cir- 
cles. Upon them played the eternal sunshine. He 
uttered a wild cry. He bowed himself on to the earth, 
and when he rose his face was white. In absolute 
silence he walked on. He was very silent now. In those 
high regions the rarefied air is hard to breathe by those 
born in the valleys; every breath he drew hurt him, and 
the blood oozed out from the tips of his fingers. Before 
the next wall of rock he began to work. The height of 
this seemed infinite, and he said nothing. The sound of 


THE STOUT OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


155 


his tool rang night and day upon the iron rocks into 
which he cut steps. Years passed oyer him, yet he 
worked on; but the wall towered up always above him to 
heaven. Sometimes he prayed that a little moss or lichen 
might spring up on those bare walls to be a companion to 
him; but it never came. The stranger watched the 
boy’s face. 

And the years roll on; he counted them by the steps 
he had cut — a few for a year — only a few. He sang no 
more; he said no more, “I will do this or that” — he only 
worked. And at night, when the twilight settled down, 
there looked out at him from the holes and crevices in 
the rock’s strange wild faces. 

“Stop your work, you lonely man, and speak to us,” 
they cried. 

“My salvation is in work. If I should stop but for 
one moment you would creep down upon me,” he replied. 
And they put out their long necks further. 

- “Look down into the crevices at your feet,” they said. 
“See what lie there — white bones! As brave and strong 
a man as you climbed to these rocks. Aud he looked up. 
He saw there was no use in striving; he would never hold 
Truth, never see her, never find her. So he lay down 
here, for he was very tired. He went to sleep forever. 
He put himself to sleep. Sleep is very tranquil. You 
are not lonely when you are asleep, neither do your hands 
ache, nor your heart.” And the hunter laughed between 
his teeth. 

“Have I torn from my heart all that was dearest; have 
I wandered alone in the land of night; have I resisted 
temptation; have I dwelt where the voice of my kind is 
never heard, and labored alone to lie down and be food for 
you, ye harpies?” 

He laughed fiercely; and the Echoes of Despair slunk 
away, for the laugh of a brave, strong heart is as a death- 
blow to them. 


156 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


Nevertheless they crept out again and looked at him. 

‘‘Do you know that your hair is white?’’ they said, 
“that your hands begin to tremble 'like a child’s? Do 
you see that the point of your shuttle is gone? — it is 
cracked already. If you should ever climb this stair,” they 
said, “it will be your last. You will never climb another. ” 

And he answered, ^^Ihnoio it !” and worked on. 

The old, thin hands cut the stones ill and jaggedly, for 
the fingers were stiff and bent. The beauty and the 
strength of the man was gone. 

At last, an old, wizened, shrunken face looked out 
above the rocks. It saw the eternal mountains rise with 
walls to the white clouds; but its work was done. 

The old hunter folded his tired hands and lay down by 
the precipice where he had worked away his life. It was 
the sleeping time at last. Below him over the valleys 
rolled the thick white mist. Once it broke; and through 
the gap the dying eyes looked down on the trees and 
fields of their childhood. From afar seemed borne to 
him the cry of his own wild birds, and he heard the noise 
of people singing as they danced. And he thought he 
heard among them the voices of his old comrades; and 
he saw far off the sunlight shine on his early home. And 
great tears gathered in the hunter’s eyes. 

“Ah! they who die there do not die alone,” he cried. 

Then the mists rolled together again; and he turned 
his eyes away. 

“I have sought,” he said, “for long years I have 
labored; but I have not found her. I have not rested, I 
have not repined, and I have not seen her; now my 
strength is gone. Where I lie down worn out other men 
will stand, young and fresh. By the steps that I have 
cut they will climb; by the stairs that I have built they 
will mount. They will never know the name of the man 
who made them. At the clumsy work they will laugh; 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


157 


when the stones roll they will curse me. But they will 
mount, and on m,y work; they will climb, and by my 
stair! They will find her, and through me! And no 
man liveth to himself, and no man dieth to himself.’’ 

The tears rolled from beneath the shiveled eyelids. If 
Truth had appeared above him in the clouds now he 
could not have seen her, the mist of death was in his 
eyes. 

“My soul hears their glad step coming,” he said; “and 
they shall mount! they shall mount!” He raised his 
shriveled hand to his eyes. 

Then slowly from the white sky above, through the 
still air, came something falling, falling, falling. Softly 
it fiuttered down, and dropped on to the breast of the 
dying man. He felt it with his hands. It was a feather. 
He died holding ih” 

The boy had shaded his eyes with his hand. On the 
wood of the carving great drops fell. The stranger must 
have laughed at him, or remained silent. He did so. 

“How did you know it?” the boy whispered at last. 
“It is not written there — not on that wood. How did 
you know it?” 

“Certainly,” .said the stranger, “the whole of the story 
is not written here, but it is suggested. And the at- 
tribute of all true art, the highest and the lowest, is this 
— that it says more than it says, and takes you away from 
itself. It is a little door that opens into an infinite hall 
where you may find what you please. Men, thinking to 
detract, say: ‘People read more in this or that work of 
genius than was ever written in it,’ not perceiving that 
they pay the highest compliment. If we pick up the 
finger and nail of a real man, we can decipher a whole 
story — could almost reconstruct the creature again, from 
head to foot. But half the body of a Mumboo-jumhow 
idol leaves us utterly in the dark as to what the rest was 


158 the 8T0R T OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 

like. We see what we see, but nothing more. There is 
nothing so universally intelligible as truth. It has a 
thousand meanings, and suggests a thousand more.’’ 

He turned over the wooden thing. 

‘‘Though a man should carve it into matter with the 
least possible manipulative skill, it will yet find interpre- 
ters. It is the soul that looks out with burning eyes 
through the most gross fleshly filament. Whosoever 
should portray truly the life and death of a little flower — 
its birth, sucking in of nourishment, reproduction of its 
kind, withering and vanishing — would have shaped a 
symbol of all existence. All true facts of nature or the 
mind are related. Your little carving represents some 
mental facts as they really are, therefore fifty different 
true stories might be read from it. What your work 
wants is not truth, but beauty of external form, the other 
half of art.” He leaned almost gently toward the boy. 
“Skill may come in time, but you will have to work hard. 
The love of beauty and the desire for it must be born in 
a man; the skill to reproduce it he must make. He must 
work hard.” 

“All my life I have longed to see you,” the boy said. 

The stranger broke off the end of his cigar, and lit it. 
The boy lifted the heavy wood from the stranger’s knee 
and drew yet nearer him. In the dog-like manner of his 
drawing near there was something superbly ridiculous, 
unless one chanced to view it in another light. Presently 
the stranger said, whiffing, “Do something for me.” 

The boy started up. 

“Ho; stay where you are. I don’t want you to go any- 
where; I want you to talk to me. Tell me what you 
have been doing all your life.” 

The boy slunk down again. Would that the man had 
asked him to root up bushes with his hands for his horse 
to feed on; or to run to the far end of the plain for the 


THE BTORY OE AN AFRICAN FARM. 


159 


fossils that lay there, or to gather the flowers that grew 
on the hills at the edge of the plain; he would have run 
and been hack quickly — but now! 

“I have never done anything/’ he said. 

“Then tell me of that nothing. I like to know what 
other folks have been doing whose word I can believe. It 
is interesting. What was the first thing you ever wanted 
very much?” 

The boy waited to remember, then began hesitatingly; 
but soon the words flowed. In the smallest past we find 
an inexhaustible mine when once we begin to dig at it. 

A confused disordered story — the little made large and 
the large small, and nothing showing its inward meaning. 
It is not till the past has receded many steps that before 
the clearest eyes it falls into co-ordinate pictures. It is 
not till the I we tell of has ceased to exist that it takes 
its place among other objective realities, and finds its 
true niche in the picture. The present and the near past 
is a confusion, whose meaning flashes on us as it slinks 
away into the distance. 

The stranger lit one cigar from the end of another, and 
puffed and listened with half-closed eyes. 

“I will remember more to tell you if you like,” said the 
boy. 

He spoke with that extreme gravity common to all very 
young things who feel deeply. It is not till twenty that 
we learn to be in deadly earnest and to laugh. The 
stranger nodded, while the fellow sought for something 
more to relate. He would tell all to this man of his — all 
that he knew, all that he had felt, his inmost sorest 
thought. Suddenly the stranger turned upon him. 

“Boy,” he said, “you are happy to be here.” 

Waldo looked at him. Was his delightful one ridicul- 
ing him? Here, with this brown earth and these 
hills, while the rare wonderful w^orld lay all beyond. 
Fortunate to be here? 


160 


TEE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


The stranger read his glance. 

“Yes/^ he said; ‘‘here with the karroo-bushes and red 
sand. Do you wonder what I mean? To all who have 
been born in the old faith there comes a time of danger, 
when the old slips from us, and we have not yet planted 
our feet on the new. We hear the voice from Sinai 
thundering no more, and the still small voice of reason is 
not yet heard. We have proved the religion our mothers 
fed us on to be a delusion; in our bewilderment we see no 
rule by which to guide our steps day by day; and yet 
every day we must step somewhere.’’ 

The stranger leaned forward and spoke more quickly. 
“We have never once been taught by word or act to dis- 
tinguish between religion and the moral laws on which it 
has artfully fastened itself, and from which it has sucked 
its vitality. When we have dragged down the weeds and 
creepers that covered the solid wall and have found them 
to be rotten wood, we imagine the wall itself to be rotten 
wood too. We find it is solid and standing only when we 
fall headlong against it. We have been taught that all 
right and wrong originate in the will of an irresponsible 
being. It is some time before we see how the inexorable 
‘Thou shalt and shalt not,’ are carved into the nature of 
things. This is the time of danger.” 

His dark, misty eyes looked into the boy’s. 

/“In the end experience will inevitably teach us that 
^he laws for a wise and noble life have a foundation in- 
finitely deeper than the fiat of any being, God or man, 
even in the groundwork of human nature. 

“She will teach us that whoso sheddeth man’s blood, 
though by man his blood be not shed, though no man 
avenge and no hell await, yet every drop shall blister on 
his soul and eat in the name of the dead. She will teach 
that whoso takes a love not lawfully his own, gathers a 
flower with a poison on its petals; that whoso revenges. 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


161 


strikes with a sword that has two edges — one for his ad- 
versary, one for himself; that who lives to himself is 
dead, though the ground is not yet on him ; that who 
wrongs another clouds his own sun; and that who sins 
in secret stands accursed and condemned before the one 
Judge who deals eternal justice — his own all-knowin"^ 



self. 


‘‘Experience will teach us this, and reason will show 
us why it must be so; but at first the world swings before 
our eyes, and no voice cries out, ‘This is the way, walk 
ye in it!’ You are happy to be here, boy! When the 
suspense fills you with pain you build stone walls and dig 
earth for relief. Others have stood where you stand to- 
day, and have felt as you feel; and another relief has been 
olfered them, and they have taken it. 

“When the day has come when they have seen the path 
in which they might walk, they have not the strength to 
follow it. Habits have fastened on them from which 
nothing. but death can free them; which cling closer than 
his sacerdotal sanctimony to a priest; which feed on the 
intellect like a Avorm, sapping energy, hope, creative 
power, all that makes a man higher than a beast — leaving 
only the power to yearn, to regret, and to sink lower in 
the abyss. 

“Bey,” he said, and the listener was not more unsmil- 
ing now than the speaker, “you are happy to he here! 
Stay where you are. If you ever pray, let it be only the 
one old prayer — ‘Lead us not into temptation.’ Live on 
here quietly. The time may yet come when you will be 
that which other men have hoped to be and never will 
be now.” 

The stranger rose, shook the dust from his sleeve, and 
ashamed at his own earnestness, looked across the bushes 
for his horse. 

“We should have been on our way already,” he said. 
“We shall have a long ride in the dark to-night.” 


162 


THE STOR r OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


Waldo hastened to fetch the animal; but he returned 
leading it slowly. The sooner it came the sooner would 
its rider be gone. 

The stranger was opening his saddle-bag, in which were 
a bright French novel and an old brown volume. He 
took the last and held it out to the boy. 

“It may be of some help to you/’ he said carelessly. 
“It was a gospel to me when I first fell on it. You must 
not expect too much; but it may give you a center round 
which to hang your ideas, instead of letting them lie 
about in a confusion that makes the head ache. W e of this 
generation are not destined to eat and be satisfied as our 
fathers were; we must be content to go hungry.” 

He smiled his automaton smile and rebuttoned the bag. 
Waldo thrust the book into his breast, and while he sad- 
dled the horse the stranger made inquiries as to the 
nature of the road and the distance to the next farm. 

When the bags were fixed, Waldo took up his wooden 
post and began to fasten it on to the saddle, tying it with 
the little blue cotton handkerchief from his neck. The 
stranger looked on in silence. When it was done the boy 
held the stirrup for him to mount. 

“What is your name?” he inquired, ungloving his 
right hand when he was in the saddle. 

The boy replied: 

“Well, I trust we shall meet again some day, sooner or 
later.” 

He shook hands with the ungloved hand; then drew on 
the glove, and touched his horse, and rode slowly away. 
The boy stood to watch him. 

Once when the stranger had gone half across the plain 
he looked back. 

“Poor devil,” he said, smiling and stroking his mus- 
tache. Then he looked to see if the little blue handker- 
chief were still safely knotted. “Poor devil!” 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


1G3 


He smiled, and then he sighed wearily, very wearily. 

And Waldo waited till the moving speck had disap- 
peared on the horizon; then he stooped and kissed pas- 
sionately a hoof-mark in the sand. Then he called his 
young birds together, and put his book under his arm, 
and walked home along the stone wall. There was a 
rare beauty to him in the sunshine that evening. 


CHAPTER III. 

GREGORY ROSE FINDS HIS AFFINITY. 

The new man, Gregory Rose, sat at the door of his 
dwelling, his arms folded, his legs crossed, and a pro- 
found melancholy seeming to rest over his soul. His 
house was a little square daub-and-wattle building, far 
out in the “karroo,’^ two miles from the homestead. It 
was covered outside with a somber coating of brown mud, 
two little panes being let into the walls for windows. 
Behind it were the ‘‘sheep-kraals,’^ and to the right a 
large dam, now principally containing baked mud. Far 
off the little “kopje” concealed the homestead, and was 
not itself an object conspicuous enough to relieve the 
dreary monotony of the landscape. 

Before the door sat Gregory Rose in his shirt-sleeves, 
on a campstool, and ever and anon he sighed deeply. 
There was that in his countenance for which even his 
depressing circumstances failed to account. Again and 
again he looked at the little “kopje,” at the milkpail at 
his side, and at the brown pony, who a short way off 
cropped the dry bushes — and sighed. 

Presently he rose and went into his house. It was one 
tiny room, the whitewashed walls profusely covered with 
prints cut from the Illustrated London News, and in 


164 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


which there was a noticeable preponderance of female 
faces and figures. A stretcher filled one end of the hut, 
and a rack for a gun and a little hanging looking-glass 
diversified the gable opposite, while in the center stood a 
chair and table. All was scrupulously neat and clean, for 
Gregory kept a little duster folded in the corner of his 
table-drawer, just as he had seen his mother do, and 
every morning before he went out he said his prayers, 
and made his bed, and dusted the table and the legs of 
the chairs, and even the pictures on the wall and the 
gun-rack. 

On this hot afternoon he took from beneath his pillow 
a watch -hag made by his sister Jemima, and took out the 
watch. Only half-past four! With a suppressed groan 
he dropped it back and sat down beside the table. Half- 
past four! Presently he roused himself. He would 
write to his sister Jemima. He always wrote to her when 
he was miserable. She was his safety-valve. He forgot 
her when he was happy; but he used her when he was 
wretched. 

He took out ink and paper. There was a family crest 
and motto on the latter, for the Koses since coming to 
the colony had discovered that they were of distinguished 
lineage. Old Eose himself, an honest English farmer, 
knew nothing of his noble descent; but his wife and 
daughter knew — especially his daughter. There were 
Eoses in England who kept a park and dated from the 
Conquest. So the colonial ‘‘Eose Farm” became “Eose 
Manor” in remembrance of the ancestral domain, and the 
claim of the Eoses to noble blood was established — in 
their own minds at least. 

Gregory took up one of the white, crested sheets; but 
on deeper refiection he determined to take a pink one, as 
more suitable to the state of his feelings. He began: 


THE STORY OF AH’ AFRIGAJY FARM, 


165 


“Kopje Alone, Monday afternoon. 
“My Dear Jemima 

Then he looked up into the little glass opposite. It 
was a youthful face reflected there, with curling brown 
beard and hair; but in the dark-blue eyes there was a 
look of languid longing that touched him. He redipped 
his pen and wrote: 

“When I look up into the little glass that hangs oppo- 
site me, I wonder if that changed and sad face 

Here he sat still and reflected. It sounded almost as 
if he might be conceited or unmanly to be looking at his 
own face in the glass. No, that would not do. So he 
looked for another pink sheet and began again. 

“Kopje Alone, Monday afternoon. 

“Dear Sister: It is hardly six months since I left 
you to come to this spot, yet could you now see me I 
know what you would say, I know what mother would 
say — ^‘Can that be our Greg — that thing with the strange 
look in his eyes?^ 

“Yes, Jemima, it is your Greg, and the change has 
been coming over me ever since I came here; but it is 
greatest since yesterday. You know what sorrows I have 
passed through, Jemima; how unjustly I was always 
treated at school, the masters keeping me back and call- 
ing me a blockhead, though, as they themselves allowed, 
I had the best memory of any boy in the school, and 
could repeat whole books from beginning to end. You 
know how cruelly father always used me, calling me a 
noodle and a milksop, just because he couldn’t under- 
stand my fine nature. You know how he has made a 
farmer of me instead of a minister, as I ought to have 
been; you know it all, Jemina; and how I have borne it 
all, not as a woman, who whines for every touch, but as a 
man should — in silence. 

“But there are things, there is a thing, which the soul 
longs to pour forth into a kindred ear. 

“Dear sister, have you ever known what it is to keep 
wanting and wanting and wanting to kiss some one’s 


166 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


mouth, and you may not; to touch some one’s hand, and 
you cannot? I am in love, Jemima. 

‘‘The old Dutch-woman from whom I hire this place 
has a little stepdaughter, and her name begins with E. 

“She is English. I do not know how her father came- 
to marry a Boer-woman. It makes me feel so strange to. 
put down that letter that I can hardly go on writing 
— E. I’ve loved her ever since I came here. For weeks 
I have not been able to eat or drink; my very tobacco 
when I smoke has no taste ; and I can remain for no more 
than five minutes in one place, and sometimes feel as 
though I were really going mad. 

“Every evening I go there to fetch my milk. Yester- 
day she gave me some coffee. The spoon fell on the 
ground. She picked it up; when she gave it me her 
finger touched mine. Jemima, I do not know if I 
fancied it — I shivered hot, and she shivered too! I 
thought, ‘It is all right; she will be mine; she loves me!’ 
Just then, Jemima, in came a fellow, a great, coarse fel- 
low, a German — a ridiculous fellow, with curls right 
down to his shoulders; it makes one sick to look at him. 
He’s only a servant of the Boer-woman ’s, and a low, 
vulgar, uneducated thing, that’s never been to boarding- 
school in his life. He had been to the next farm seeking 
sheep. When he came in she said, ‘Good-evening, 
Waldo. Have some coffee!’ and she kissed Mm. 

“All last night I heard nothing else but ‘Have some 
coffee; have some coffee.’ If I went to sleep for a 
moment I dreamed that her finger was pressing mine; 
but when I woke with a start I heard her say, ‘Good- 
evening, Waldo. Have some coffee!’ 

“Is this madness? 

“I have not eaten a mouthful to-day. This evening I 
go and propose to her. If she refuses me I shall go and 
kill myself to-morrow. There is a dam of water close by. 
The sheep have drunk most of it up, hut there is still 
enough if I tie a stone to my neck. 

“It is a choice between death and madness. I can en- 
dure no more. If this should he the last letter you ever 
get from me, think of me tenderly, and forgive me. 
Without her, life would be a howling wilderness, a long 
tribulation. She is my affinity; the one love of my life. 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


167 


of my youth, of my manhood; my sunshine; my God- 
given blossom. 

“ ‘ They never loved who dreamed that they loved once, 

And who saith, ‘ I loved once’ ? 

Not angels, whose deep eyes look down through realms of lightl’ 

‘‘Your disconsolate brother, on what is, in all proba- 
bility, the last and distracted night of his life. 

“Gregory Nazianzen Kose. 

“P. S. — Tell mother to take care of my pearl studs. I 
left them in the wash-hand-stand drawer. Don’t let the 
children get hold of them. 

“P. P. S. — I shall take this letter with me to the farm. 
If I turn down one corner you may know I have been ac- 
cepted; if not, you may know it is all up with your 
heart-broken brother, G. N. K.” 

Gregory having finished this letter, read it over with 
much approval, put it in an envelope, addressed it, and 
sat contemplating the ink-pot, somewhat relieved in 
mind. 

The evening turned out chilly and very windy after 
the day’s heat. From afar off, as Gregory neared the 
homestead on the brown pony, he could distinguish a 
little figure in a little red cloak at the door of the cow- 
kraal. Em leaned over the poles that barred the gate, 
and watched the frothing milk run through the black 
fingers of the herdsman, while the unwilling cows stood 
with tethered heads by the milking poles. She had 
thrown the red cloak over her own head, and held it 
under her chin with a little hand, to keep from her ears 
the wind, that playfully shook it, and tossed the little 
fringe of yellow hair into her eyes. 

“Is it not too cold for you to be standing here?” said 
Gregory, coming softly close to her. 

“Oh, no; it is so nice. I always come to watch the 
milking. That red cow with the short horns is bringing 


168 


THE STOli Y OF AH AFRICAN FARM. 


up the calf of the white cow that died. She loves it so — 
just as if it were her own. It is so nice io see her lick its 
little ears. Just look!’^ 

‘‘The clouds are black. I think it is going to rain to- 
night/’ said Gregory. 

“Yes/’ answered Em, looking up as well as she could 
for the little yellow fringe. 

“But I’m sure you must he cold/’. said Gregory, and 
put his hand under the cloak, and found there a small 
fist doubled up, soft, and very warm. He held it fast in 
his hand. 

“Oh, Em, I love you better than all the world besides! 
Tell me, do you love me a little?” 

“Yes, I do,” said Em, hesitating, and trying softly to 
free her hand. 

“Better than everything; better than all the world, 
darling?” he asked, bending down so low that the yellow 
hair was blown into his eyes. 

“I donT know,” said Em gravely. “I do love you 
very much; hut I love my cousin who is at school, and 
Waldo, very much. You see I have known them so 
long!” 

“Oh, Em, do not talk to me so coldly!” Gregory cried, 
seizing the little arm that rested on the gate, and press- 
ing it till she was half-afraid. The herdsman had moved 
away to the other end of the “kraal” now, and the cows, 
busy with their calves, took no notice of the little human 
farce. “Em, if you talk so to me I will go mad! You 
must love me, love me better than all! You must give 
yourself to me. I have loved you since that first moment 
when I saw you walking by the stone wall with the jug 
in your hands. You were made for me, created for me! 
I will love you till I die! Oh, Em, do not be so cold, so 
cruel to me!” 

He held her arm so tightly that her fingers relaxed 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


169 


their hold, and the cloak fluttered down on to the 
ground, and the wind played more roughly than ever 
with the little yellow head. 

“I do love you very much,’’ she said; ‘^Ijut I do not 
know if I want to marry you. I love you better than 
Waldo, but I can’t tell if I love you better than Lyndall. 
If you would let me wait for a week I think perhaps I 
could tell you.” 

Gregory picked up the cloak and wrapped it round her. 

‘‘If you could but love me as I love you,” he said; 
“but no woman can love as a man can. I will wait till 
Saturday. I will not once come near you till then. 
Good-by! Oh, Em,” he said, turning again, and twining 
his arm about her, and kissing her surprised little mouth, 
“if you are not my wife I cannot live. I have ^ever 
loved another woman, and I never shall! — never, never!” 

“You make me afraid,” said Em. “Come, let us go, 
and I will All your pail.” 

“I want no milk. Good-by! You will not see me 
again till Saturday.” 

Late that night, when every one else had gone to bed, 
the yellow-haired little woman stood alone in the kitchen. 
She had come to All the kettle for the next morning’s 
coflee, and now stood before the Are. The warm reflec- 
tion lit the grave old-womanish little face, that was so 
unusually thoughtful this evening. 

“Better than all the world; better than everything; he 
loves me better than everything!” She said the words 
aloud, as if they were more easy to believe if she spoke 
them so. She had given out so much love in her little 
life, and had got none of it back with interest. Now one 
said, “I love you better than all the world.” One loved 
her better than she loved him. How suddenly rich she 
Avas. She kept clasping and unclasping her hands. So 
a beggar feels who falls asleep on the pavement wet and 


170 the story of ah AFRICAN FARM, 

hungry, and who wakes in a palace-hall with servants 
and lights, and a feast before him. Of course the beg- 
gar’s is only a dream, and he wakes from it; and this was 
real. 

Gregory had said to her, ‘‘I will love you as long as I 
live.” She said the words over and over to herself like 
a song. 

“I will send for him to-morrow, and I will tell him 
how I love him back,” she said. 

But Em needed not to send for him. Gregory discov- 
ered on reaching home that Jemima’s letter was still in 
his pocket. And, therefore, much as he disliked the ap- 
pearance of vacillation and weakness, he was obliged to 
be at the farmhouse before sunrise to post it. 

“If I see her,” Gregory said, “I shall only bow to her. 
She shall see that I am a man, one who keeps his word.” 

As to Jemima’s letter, he had turned down one corner 
of the page, and then turned it back, leaving a deep 
crease. That would show that he was neither accepted 
nor rejected, but that matters were in an intermediate 
condition. It was a more poetical way than putting it in 
plain words. 

Gregory was barely in time with his letter, for Waldo 
was starting when he reached the homestead, and Em 
was on the doorstep to see him off. When he had given 
the letter, and Waldo had gone, Gregory bowed stiffly 
and prepared to remount his own pony, but somewhat 
slowly. It was still early; none of the servants were 
about. Em came up close to him and put her little hand 
softly on his arm as he stood by his horse. 

“I do love you best of all,” she said. She was not 
frightened now, however much he kissed her. “I wish I 
was beautiful and nice,” she added, looking up into his 
eyes as he held her against his breast. 

‘'My darling, to me you are more beautiful than all the 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


171 


women in the world; dearer to me than everything it 
holds. If you were in hell I would go after you to find 
you there! If you were dead, though my body moved, 
my soul would be under the ground with you. All life 
as I pass with you in my arms will be perfect to me. It 
will pass, pass like a ray of sunshine.^’ 

Em thought how beautiful and grand his face was as 
she looked up into it. She raised her hand gently and 
put it on his forehead. 

“You are so silent, so cold, my Em,” he cried. “Have 
you nothing to say to me?” 

A little shade of wonder filled her eyes. 

“I will do everything you tell me,” she said. 

What else could she say? Her idea of love was only 
service. 

“Then, my own precious one, promise never to kiss 
that fellow again. I cannot bear that you should love 
any one but me. You must not! I will not have it! If 
every relation I had in the world were to die to-morrow, 
I would be quite happy if I still only had you! My dar- 
ling, my love, why are you so cold? Promise me not to 
love him any more. If you asked me to do anything for 
you, I would do it, though it cost my life.” 

Em put her hand very gravely round his neck. 

“I will never kiss him,” she said, “and I will try not to 
love any one else. But I do not know if I will be able.” 

“Oh, my darling, I think of you all night, all day. I 
think of nothing else, love, nothing else,” he said, fold- 
ing his arms about her. 

Em was a little conscience-stricken; even that morning 
she had found time to remember that in six months her 
cousin would come back from school, and she had 
thought to remind Waldo of the lozenges for his cough, 
even when she saw Gregory coming. 

“I do not know how it is,” she said humbly, nestling 


m 


THE STORY OE AN AFRICAN FARM. 


to him, ‘‘but I cannot love you so much as you love me. 
Perhaps it is because I am only a woman; but I do love 
you as much as I can.’^ 

Now the Kaffer maids are coming from the huts. He 
kissed her again, eyes and mouth and hands, and left her. 

Tant’ Sannie was well satisfied when told of the be- 
trothment. She herself contemplated marriage within 
the year with one or other of her numerous “vrijers,’^ 
and she suggested that the weddings might take place to- 
gether. 

Em set to work busily to prepare her own household 
linen and wedding garments. Gregory was Vith her 
daily, almost hourly, and the six months which elapsed 
before LyndalPs return passed, as he felicitously phrased 
it, “like a summer night, when you are dreaming of some 
one you love.’^ 

Late one evening Gregory sat by his little love, turn- 
ing the handle of her machine as she drew her work 
through it, and they talked of the changes they would 
make when the Boer-woman was gone, and the farm be- 
longed to them alone. There should be a new room here, 
and a kraal there. So they chatted on. Suddenly 
Gregory dropped the handle, and impressed a fervent 
kiss on the fat hand that guided the linen. 

“You are so beautiful, Em,’’ said the lover. “It 
comes over me in a flood suddenly how I love you.” 

Em smiled. 

“Tanf Sannie says when I am her age no one will look 
at me; and it is true. My hands are as short and broad 
as a duck’s foot, and my forehead is so low, and I haven’t 
any nose. I be pretty. ” 

She laughed softly. It was so nice to think he should 
be so blind. 

“When my cousin comes to-morrow you will see a 
beautiful woman, Gregory,” she added presently. “She 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


173 


is like a little queen; her shoulders are so upright, and 
her head looks as though it ought to have a little crown 
upon it. You must come to see her to-morrow as soon 
as she comes. I am sure you will love her.’’ 

“Of course I shall come to see her, since she is your 
cousin; hut do you think I could ever think any woman 
as lovely as I think you?” 

He fixed his seething eyes upon her. 

“You could not help seeing that she is prettier,” said 
Em, slipping her right hand into his; “but you will never 
be able to like any one so much as you like me.” 

Afterward, when she wished her lover good-night, she 
stood upon the doorstep to call a greeting after him; and 
she waited, as she always did, till the brown pony’s hoofs 
became inaudible behind the “kopje.” 

Then she passed through the room where Tant’ Sannie 
lay snoring, and through the little room that was all 
draped in white, waiting for her cousin’s return, on to 
her own room. 

She went to the chest of drawers to put away the work 
she had finished, and sat down on the floor before the 
lowest drawer. In it were the things she was preparing 
for her marriage. Piles of white linen, and some aprons 
and quilts; and in a little box in the corner a spray of 
orange-blossom which she had brought from a smouse. 
There, too, was a ring Gregory had given her, and a veil 
his sister had sent, and there was a little roll of fine em- 
broidered work which Trana had given her. It was too 
fine and good even for Gregory’s wife — just right for 
something very small and soft. She would keep it. And 
she touched it gently with her forefinger, smiling; and 
then she blushed and hid it far behind the other things. 
She knew so well all that was in that drawer, and yet she 
turned them all over as though she saw them for the first 
time, packed them all out, and packed them all in, with- 


1T4 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


out one fold or crumple; and then sat down and looked 
at them. 

To-morrow evening when Lyndall came she would 
bring her here, and show it her all. Lyndall would so 
like to see it — the little wreath, and the ring, and the 
white veil! It would be so nice! Then Em fell to seeing 
pictures. Lyndall should live with them till she herself 
got married some day. 

Every day when Gregory came home, tired from his 
work, he would look about and say, “Where is my wife? 
Has no one seen my wife? Wife, some coffee!’’ and she 
would give him some. 

Em’s little face grew very grave at last, and she knelt 
up and extended her hands over the drawer of linen. 

“Oh, God!” she said, “I am so glad! I do not know 
what I have done that I should be so glad. Thank you!” 


CHAPTER IV. 

LYNDALL. 

She was more like a princess, yes, far more like a 
princess, than the lady who still hung on the wall in 
Tant’ Sannie’s bedroom. So Em thought. She leaned 
back in the little armchair; she wore a gray dressing- 
gown, and her long hair was combed out and hung to the 
ground. Em, sitting before her, looked up with mingled 
respect and admiration. 

Lyndall was tired after her long journey, and had come 
to her room early. Her eyes ran over the familiar ob- 
jects. Strange to go away for four years, and come back, 
and find that the candle standing on the dressing-table 
still cast the shadow of an old crone’s head in the corner 
beyond the clothes-horse. Strange that even a shadow 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM, 


m 


should last longer than a man! She looked about among 
the old familiar objects; all was there, but the old self 
was gone. 

‘‘What are you noticing?” asked Em. 

“Nothing and everything. I thought the windows ^ 
were higher. If I were you, when I get this place I 
should raise the walls. There is not room to breathe 
here. One suffocates.” 

“Gregory is going to make many alterations,” said 
Em; and drawing nearer to the gray dressing-gown re- 
spectfully. “Do you like him, Lyndall? Is he not 
handsome?” 

“He must have been a fine baby,” said Lyndall, look- 
ing at the white dimity curtain that hung above the 
window. 

Em was puzzled. 

“There are some men,” said Lyndall, “who you 
never can believe were babies at all; and others you never 
see without thinking how very nice they must have 
looked when they wore socks and pink sashes.” 

Em remained silent; then she said with a little dignity: 
“When you know him you will love him as I do. When 
I compare other people with him, they seem so weak and 
little. Our hearts are so cold, our loves are mixed up 
with so many other things. But he — no one is worthy of 
his love. I am not. It is so great and pure.” 

“You need not make yourself unhappy on that point 
— your poor return for his love, my dear,” said Lyndall. 
“A man’s love is a fire of olive-wood. It leaps higher 
every moment; it roars, it blazes, it shoots out red flames; 
it threatens to wrap you round and devour you — you who 
stand by like an icicle in the glow of its fierce warmth. 
You are self-reproached at your own chilliness and want 
of reciprocity. The next day, when you go to warm your 
hands a little, you find a few ashes! ’Tis a long love and 


176 


THE 8T0R7 OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


cool against a short love and hot; men, at all events, 
have nothing to complain of.” 

‘‘You speak so because you do not know men,” said 
Em, instantly assuming the dignity of superior knowl- 
edge so universally affected by affianced and married 
women in discussing man’s nature with their uncon- 
tracted sisters. “You will know them too some day, and 
then you will think differently,” continued Em, with the 
condescending magnanimity which superior knowledge 
can always afford to show to ignorance 

Lyndall’s little lip quivered in a manner indicative of 
intense amusement. She twirled a massive ring upon 
her forefinger — a ring more suitable for the hand of a 
man, and noticeable in design — a diamond cross let into 
gold, with the initials “R. R.” below it. 

“Ah, Lyndall,” Em cried, “perhaps you are engaged 
yourself — that is why you smile. Yes; I am sure you are. 
Look at this ring!” 

Lyndall drew the hand quickly from her. 

“I am not in so great a hurry to put my neck beneath 
any man’s foot; and I do not so greatly admire the cry^ 
ing of babies,” she said, as she closed her eyes half- 
wearily and leaned back in the chair. “There are other 
women glad of such work.” 

Em felt rebuked and ashamed. How could she take 
Lyndall and show her the white 'linen and the wreath, 
and the embroidery? She was quiet for a little while, 
and then began to talk about Trana and the old farm- 
servants, till she saw her companion was weary; then she 
rose and left her for the night. But after Em was gone 
Lyndall sat on, watching the old crone’s face in the 
corner, and with a weary look, as though the whole 
world’s weight rested on these frail young shoulders. 

The next morning, Waldo, starting off before breakfast 


TEE STOU Y OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 177 

with a bag of mealies slung over his shoulder to feed the 
ostriches, heard a light step behind him. 

‘‘Wait for me; I am coming with you,” said Lyndall, 
adding as she came up to him, “If I had not gone to look 
for you yesterday you would not have come to greet me 
till now. Do you not like me any longer, Waldo?” 

“Yes — but — you are changed.” 

It was the old clumsy, hesitating mode of speech. 

“You like the pinafores better?” she said quickly. 
She wore a dress of a simple cotton fabric, but very 
fashionably made, and on her head was a broad white 
hat. To Waldo she seemed superbly attired. She saw 
it. “My dress has changed a little,” she said, “and I 
also; but not to you. Hang the bag over your other 
shoulder, that I may see your face. You say so little 
that if one does not look at you you are an uncompre- 
bended cipher.” Waldo changed the bag, and they 
walked on side by side. “You have improved,” she 
said. “Do you know that I have sometimes wished to 
see you while I was away; not often, but still sometimes.” 

They were at the gate of the first camp now. Waldo 
threw over a bag of mealies, and they walked on over the 
dewy ground. 

“Have you learned much?” he asked her simply, re- 
membering how she had once said, “When I come back 
again I shall know everything that a human being can.” 

She laughed. 

“Are you thinking of my old boast? Yes; I have 
learned something, though hardly what I expected, and 
not quite so much. In the first place, I have learned 
that one of my ancestors must have been a very great 
fool; for they say nothing comes out in a man but one of 
his forefathers possessed it before him. In the second 
place, I have discovered that of all cursed places under 
the sun, where the hungriest soul can hardly pick up a 


178 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


few grains of knowledge, a girls’ boarding-school is the 
worst. They are called finishing schools, and the name 
tells accurately what they are. They finish everything 
hut imbecility and weakness, and that they cultivate. 
They are nicely adapted machines for experimenting on 
the question, Tnto how little space a human soul can be 
crushed?’ I have seen some souls so compressed that 
they would have fitted into a small thimble, and found 
room to move there — wide room. A woman who has 
been for many years in one of those places carries the 
mark of the beast on her till she dies, though she may 
expand a little afterward, when she breathes in the free 
world.” 

“Were you miserable?” he asked, looking at her with 
quick anxiety. 

“I? — no. I am never miserable and never happy. I 
wish I were. But I should have run away from the place 
on the fourth day, and hired myself to the first Boer- 
woman whose farm I came to, to make fire under her 
soap-pot, if I had to live as the rest of the drove did. 
Can you form an idea, Waldo, of what it must be to be shut 
up with cackling old women, who are without knowledge 
of life, without love of the beautiful, without strength, 
to have your soul cultured by them? It is suffocation 
onjy to breathe the air they breathe; but I made them 
give me room. I told the-m I should leave, and they 
knew I came there on my own account; so they gave me 
a bedroom without the companionship of one of those 
things that were having their brains slowly diluted and 
squeezed out of them. I did not learn music, because I 
had no talent; and when the drove made cushions, and 
hideous flowers that the roses laugh at, and a footstool 
in six weeks that a machine would have made better in 
five minutes, I went to my room. With the money saved 
from such work I bought books and newspapers, and at 


THE STOUT OF AN AFRICAN FARM, 


179 


night I sat up. I read, and epitomized what I read; and 
I found time to write some plays, and find out how hard 
it is to make your thoughts look anything but imbecile 
fools when you paint them with ink and paper. In the 
holidays I learned a great deal more. I made acquaint- 
ances, saw a few places and many people, and some 
different ways of living, which is more than any books 
can show one. On the whole, I am not dissatisfied with 
my four years. I have not learned what I expected; but 
I have learned something else. What have you been 
doing 

“Nothing.” 

“That is not possible. I shall find out by and by.” 

They still stepped on side by side over the dewy bushes. 
Then suddenly she turned on him. 

“Don’t you wish you were a woman, Waldo?” 

“No,” he answered readily. 

She laughed. 

“I thought not. Even you are too worldly-wise for that. 
1 never met a man who did. This is a pretty ring,” she 
said, holding out her little hand, that the morning sun 
might make the diamonds sparkle. “Worth fifty pounds 
at least. I will give it to the first man who tells me he 
would like to be a woman. There might be one on Bob- 
bin Island * who would win it, perhaps, but I doubt it 
even there. It is delightful to be a woman; but every 
man thanks the Lord devoutly that he isn’t one.” 

She drew her hat to one side to keep the sun out of 
her eyes as she walked. Waldo looked at her so intently 
that he stumbled over the bushes. Yes, this was his 
little Lyndall who had worn the check pinafores; he saw 
it now, and he walked closer beside her. They reached 
the next camp. 

“Let us wait at this camp and watch the birds,” she 

* fjunfitics ftt the Cape are sent tg Rofibjn Island. 


180 


THE 8T0R 7 OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


said, as an ostrich hen came hounding toward them with 
velvety wings outstretched, while far away over the 
hushes the head of the cock was visible as he sat brooding 
on the eggs. 

Lyndall folded her arms on the gate bar, and Waldo 
threw his empty bag on the wall and leaned beside her. 

‘‘I like these birds,” she said, “they share each other’s 
work, and are companions. Do you take an interest in 
the position of women, Waldo?” 

“No.” 

“I thought not. No one does, unless they are' in need 
of a subject upon which to show their wit. And as for 
you, from of old you can see nothing that is not separated 
from you by a few millions of miles, and strewed over 
with mystery. If women were the inhabitants of Jupi- 
ter, of whom you had happened to hear something, you 
would pore over us and our condition night and day; but 
because we are before your eyes you never look at us. 
You care nothing that this is ragged and ugly,” she said, 
putting her little finger on his sleeve; “but you strive 
mightily to make an imaginary leaf on an old stick beau- 
tiful. I’m sorry you don’t care for the position of 
women; I should have liked us to be friends; and it is the 
only thing about which I think much or feel much — if, 
indeed, I have any feeling about anything,” she added 
flippantly, readjusting her dainty little arms. “When I 
was a baby, I fancy my parents left me out in the frost 
one night, and I got nipped internally — it feels so!” 

“I have only a few old thoughts,” he said, “and I 
think them over and over again; always beginning where 
I left off. I never get any further. I am weary of 
them.” 

“Like an old hen that sits on its eggs month after 
month and they never come out?” she said quickly. “I 
am so pressed in upon by new things that, lest they should 


THE STOB Y OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 181 

trip one another up, I have to keep forcing them back. 
My head swings sometimes. But this one thought 
stands, never goes — if I might but be one of these born 
in the future; then, perhaps, to be born a woman will 
not he to be born branded. '' 

Waldo looked at her. It was hard to say whether she 
were in earnest or mocking. 

know it is foolish. Wisdom never kicks at the iron 
walls it can’t bring down,” she said. ‘‘But we are 
cursed, Waldo, born cursed from the time our mothers 
bring us into the world till the shrouds are put ou us. 
Do not look at me as though I were talking nonsense. 
Everything has two sides — the outside that is ridiculous, 
and the inside that is solemn.” 

“I am not laughing,” said the boy, sedately enough; 
“but what curses you?” 

He thought she would not reply to him, she waited so 
long. 

“It is not what is done to us, but what is made of us,” 
she said at last, “that wrongs us. No man can be really 
injured but by what modifies himself. We all enter the 
world little plastic beings, with so much natural force, 
perhaps, but for the rest — blank; and the world tells us 
what we are to be, and shapes us by the ends it sets be- 
fore us. To you it says — Worh; and to us it says — 
Seem ! To you it says — As you approximate to man’s 
highest ideal of God, as your arm is strong and your 
knowledge great, and the power to labor is with you, so 
you shall gain all that human heart desires. To us it 
says — Strength shall not help you, nor knowledge, nor 
labor. You shall gain what men gain, but by other 
means. And so the world makes men and women. 

“Look at this little chin of mine, Waldo, with the 
dimple in it. It is but a small part of my person; but 
though I had a knowledge of all things under the sun. 


182 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


and the wisdom to use it, and the deep loving heart of 
an angel, it would not stead me through life like this 
little chin. I can win money with it, I can win love; I 
can win power with it, I can win fame. What would 
knowledge help me? The less a woman has in her head 
the lighter she is for climbing. I once heard an old man 
say that he never saw intellect help a woman so much as 
a pretty ankle; and it was the truth. They begin to 
shape us to our cursed end,’^ she said, with her lips drawn 
in to look as though they smiled, “when we are tiny 
things in shoes and socks. We sit with our little feet 
drawn up under us in the window, and look out at the 
boys in their happy play. We want to go. Then a lov- 
ing hand is laid on us: ‘Little one, you cannot go,’ they 
say; ‘your little face will burn, and your nice white dress 
be spoiled.’ We feel it must be for our good, it is so 
lovingly said; but we cannot understand; and we kneel 
still with one little cheek wistfully pressed against the 
pane. Afterward we go and thread blue beads, and 
make a string for our necks; and we go and stand before 
the glass. We see the complexion we were not to spoil, 
and the white frock, and we look into our own great 
eyes. Then the curse begins to act on us. It finishes its 
work when we are grown women, who no more look out 
wistfully at a more healthy life; we are contented. We 
fit our sphere as a Chinese woman’s foot fits her shoe, 
exactly, as though God had made both— and yet he 
knows nothing of either. In some of us the shaping of 
our end has been quite completed. The parts we are not 
to use have been quite atrophied, and have even dropped 
off; but in others, and we are not less to be pitied, they 
have been weakened and left. We wear the bandages, 
but our limbs have not grown to them; we know that we 
are compressed, and chafe against them. 

“But what does it help? A little bitterness, a little 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


183 


longing when we are young, a little futile searching for 
work, a little passionate striving for room for the exercise 
of our powers — and then we go with the drove. A 
woman must march with her regiment. In the end she 
must be trodden down or go with it; and if she is wise 
she goes. 

“I see in your great eyes what you are thinking,^’ she 
said, glancing at him; “I always know what the person I 
am talking to is thinking of. How is this woman who 
makes such a fuss worse off than I? I will show you by 
a very little example. We stand here at this gate this 
morning, both poor, both young, both friendless; there 
is not much to choose between us. Let us turn away 
just as we are, to make our way in life. This evening 
you will come to a farmer’s house. The farmer, albeit 
you come alone on foot, will give you a pipe of tobacco 
and a cup of coffee and a bed. If he has no dam to build 
and no child to teach, to-morrow you can go on your way 
with a friendly greeting of the hand. I, if I come to the 
same place to-night, will have strange questions asked 
me, strange glances cast on me. The Boer-wife will 
shake her head and give me food to eat with the Kaffers, 
and a right to sleep with the dogs. That would be the 
first step in our progress — a very little one, but every step 
to the end would repeat it. We were equals once when 
we lay new-born babes on our nurses’ knees. We will be 
equals again when they tie up our jaws for the last 
sleep!” 

Waldo looked in wonder at the little quivering face; 
it was a glimpse into a world of passion and feeling 
wholly new to him. 

‘^Mark you,” she said, ‘%e have always this advantage 
over you — we can at any time step into ease and compe- 
tence, where you must labor patiently for it. A little 
weeping, a little wheedling, a little self-degradation, a little 


184 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


careful use of our advantages, and then some man will 
say: ‘Come, be my wife!’ With good looks and youth 
marriage is easy to attain. There are men enough; but 
a woman who has sold herself, even for a ring and a new 
name, need hold her skirt aside for no creature in the 
street. They both earn their bread in one way. Mar- 
riage for love is the beautiful external symbol of the 
union of souls; marriage without it is the uncleaiiliest 
traffic that defiles the world.” She ran her little finger 
savagely along the topmost bar, shaking off the dozen 
little dewdrops that still hung there. “And they tell us 
we have men’s chivalrous attention!” she cried. “When 
we ask to be doctors, lawyers, law-makers, anything but 
ill-paid drudges, they say — No; but you have men’s 
chivalrous attention; now think of that and be satisfied! 
What would you do without it?” 

The bitter little silvery laugh, so seldom heard, rang 
out across the bushes. She bit her little teeth together. 

“I was coming up in Cobb & Co.’s the other day. At 
a little wayside hotel we had to change the . large coach 
for a small one. We were ten passengers, eight men and 
two women. As I sat in the house the gentlemen came 
and whispered to me, ‘There is not room for all in the 
new coach, take your seat quickly.’ We hurried out, and 
they gave me the best seat, and covered me with rugs, 
because it was drizzling. Then the last passenger came 
running up to the coach — an old woman with a wonder- 
ful bonnet, and a black shawl pinned with a yellow pin. 

“ ‘There is no room,’ they said; ‘you must wait till 
next week’s coach takes you up;’ but she climbed on to 
the step, and held on at the window with both hands. 

“ ‘My son-in-law is ill, and I must go and see him,’ she 
said. 

“ ‘My good woman,’ said one, ‘I am really exceedingly 
sorry that your son-in-law is ill; but there is absolutely no 
room for you here.’ 


THE STOUT OF AH AFRICAN FARM. 


185 


‘You had better get down/ said another, ‘or the 
wheel will catch you.’ 

“I got up to give her my place. 

“ ‘Oh, no, no!’ they cried, ‘we will not allow that.’ 

“ ‘I will rather kneel,’ said one, and he crouched down 
at my feet; so the woman came in. 

“There were nine of us in that coach, and only one 
showed chivalrous attention — and that was a woman to a 
woman. 

“I shall be old and ugly, too, one day, and I shall look 
for men’s chivalrous help, but I shall not find it. 

“The bees are very attentive to the flowers till their 
honey is done, and then they fly over them. I don’t 
know if the flowers feel grateful to the bees; they are 
great fools if they do.” 

“But some women,” said Waldo, speaking as though 
the words forced themselves from him at that moment, 
“some women have power.” 

She lifted her beautiful eyes to his face. 

“Power! Did you ever hear of men being asked 
whether other souls should have power or not? It is born 
in them. You may dam up the fountain of water, and 
make it a stagnant marsh, or you may let it run free and 
do its work; hwtyou cannot say whether it shall be there; 
it is there. And it will act, if not openly for good then 
covertly for evil; but it will act. If Goethe had been 
stolen away a child, and reared in a robber horde in the 
depths of a German forest, do you think the world would 
have had ‘Faust’ and ‘Iphegenie?’ But he would have 
been Goethe still — stronger, wiser than his fellows. At 
night, round their watch-fire, he would have chanted 
wild songs of rapine and murder, till the dark faces 
about him were moved and trembled. His songs would 
have echoed on from father to son, and nerved the heart 
and arm — for evil. Do you think if Napoleon had been 


186 


THE 8T0B Y OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


born a woman that he would have been contented to give 
small tea-parties and talk small scandal? He would have 
risen; but the world would not have heard of him as it 
hears of him now — a man great and kingly, with all his 
sins; he would have left one of those names that stain 
the leaf of every history — the names of women, who, hav- 
ing power, but being denied the right to exercise it 
openly, rule in the dark, covertly, and by stealth, through 
the men whose passions they feed on and by whom they 
climb. 

“Power!” she said suddenly, smiting her little hand 
upon the rail. “Yes, we have power; and since we are 
not to expend it in tunneling mountains, nor healing 
diseases, nor making laws, nor money, nor on any extrane- 
ous object, we expend it on you. You are our goods, our 
merchandize, our material for operating on; we buy you, 
we sell you, we make fools of you, we act the wily old 
Jew with you, we keep six of you crawling to our little 
feet, and praying only for a touch of our little hand; and 
they say truly, there was never an ache or pain or broken 
heart but a woman was at the bottom of it. We are not 
to study law, nor science, nor art, so we study you. 
There is never a nerve or fiber in a man’s nature but we 
know it. We keep six of you dancing in the palm of one 
little hand,” she said, balancing her outstretched arm 
gracefully, as though tiny beings disported themselves in 
its palm. “There, we throw you away, and you sink to 
the devil,” she said, folding her arms composedly. 
“There was never a man who said one word for woman 
but he said two for man, and three for the whole human 
race.” 

She watched the bird pecking up the last yellow grains; 
but Waldo looked only at her. 

When she spoke again it was very measuredly. 

“They bring weighty arguments against us when we 


THE STORY OF AN AFRIOAN TARM. 


187 


ask for the perfect freedom of women/’ she said; ‘‘but, 
when you come to the objections, they are like pumpkin 
devils with candles inside, hollow, and can’t bite. They 
say that women do not wish for the sphere and freedom 
we ask for them, and would not use it! 

“If the bird does like its cage, and does like its sugar 
and will not leave it, why keep the door so very care- 
fully shut? Why not open it, only a little? Do they 
know there is many a bird will not break its wings 
against the bars, but would fly if the doors were open?” 
She knit her forehead and leaned further over the bars. 

“Then they say, ‘If the women have the liberty you 
ask for, they will be found in positions for which they 
are not fitted!’ If two men climb one ladder, did you 
ever see the weakest anywhere but at the foot? The 
surest sign of fitness is success. The weakest never wins 
but where there is handicapping. Nature, left to her- 
self, will as beautifully apportion a man’s work to his 
capacities as long ages ago she graduated the colors on 
the bird’s breast. If we are not fit, you give us, to no 
purpose, the right to labor; the work will fall out of our 
hands into those that are wiser.” 

She talked more rapidly as she went on, as one talks 
of that over which they have brooded long, and which 
lies near their hearts. 

Waldo watched her intently. 

“They say women have one great and noble work left 
them, and they do it ill. That is true; they do it exe- 
crably. It is the work that demands the broadest culture, 
and they have not even the narrowest. The lawyer may 
see no deeper than his law-books, and the chemist see no 
further than the windows of his laboratory, and they may 
do their work well. But the woman who does woman’s 
work needs a many-sided, multiform culture; the 
heights and depths of human life must not be beyond the 


1^8 


mE STORY OF AJT AERlOAW FARM. 


reach of her vision; she must have knowledge of men 
and things in many states, a wide catholicity of sym- 
pathy, the strength that springs from knowledge, and 
the magnanimity which springs from strength. We bear 
the world, and we make it. The souls of little children 
are marvelously delicate and tender things, and keep 
forever the shadow that first falls on them, and that is 
the mother’s, or at best a woman’s. There was never a 
great man who had not a great mother — it is hardly an 
exaggeration. The first six years of our life make us; all 
that is added later is veneer; and yet some say, if a 
woman can cook a dinner or dress herself well she has 
culture enough. 

“The mightiest and noblest of human work is given to 
us, and we do it ill. Send a navvie to work into an artist’s 
studio, and see what you will find there! And yet, thank 
God, we have this work,” she added quickly — “it is the 
one window through which we see into the great world 
of earnest labor. The meanest girl who dances and 
dresses becomes something higher when her children look 
up into her face and ask her questions. It is the only 
education we have and which they cannot take from us.” 

She smiled slightly. “They say that we complain of 
woman’s being compelled to look upon marriage as a pro- 
fession; but that she is free to enter upon it or leave it, 
as she pleases. 

“Yes — and a cat set afloat in a pond is free to sit in 
the tub till it dies there, it is under no obligation to wet 
its feet; and a drowning man may catch at a straw or not, 
just as he likes — it is a glorious liberty! Let any man 
think for five minutes of what old maidenhood means to 
a woman — and then let him be silent. Is it easy to bear 
through life a name that in itself signifies defeat? to 
dwell, as nine out of ten unmarried women must, under 
the finger of another woman? Is it easy to look forward 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


189 


to an old age without honor, without the reward of use- 
ful labor, without love? I wonder how many men there 
are who would give up everything that is dear in life for 
the sake of maintaining a high ideal purity.’^ 

She laughed a little laugh that was clear without being 
pleasant. 

‘‘And then, when they have no other argument against 
us, they say, ‘Go on; but when you have made woman 
what you wish, and her children inherit her culture, you 
will defeat yourself. Man will gradually become extinct 
from excess of intellect, the passions which replenish the 
race will die.’ Fools!” she said, curling her pretty lip. 
“A Hottentot sits at the roadside and feeds on a rotten 
bone he has found there, and takes out his bottle of 
Capesmoke and swills at it, and grunts with satisfaction; 
and the cultured child of the nineteenth century sits in 
his armchair, and sips choice wines with the lip of a 
connoisseur, and tastes delicate dishes with a delicate 
palate, and with a satisfaction of which the Hottentot 
knows nothing. Heavy jaw and sloping forehead — all 
have gone with increasing intellect; but the animal ap- 
petites are there still — refined, discriminative, but im- 
measurably intensified. Fools! Before men forgave or 
worshiped, while they were weak on their hind legs, did 
they not eat and drink„ and fight for wives? When all 
the latter additions to humanity have vanished, will not 
the foundation on which they are built remain?” 

She was silent then for awhile, and said somewhat 
dreamily, "more as though speaking to herself than to him: 

“They ask. What will you gain, even if man does not 
become extinct? — you will have brought justice and 
equality on to the earth, and sent love from it. When 
men and women are equals they will love no more. Your 
highly cultured women will not be lovable, will not love. 

“Do they see nothing, understand nothing? It is 


190 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM, 


Tant’ Sannie who buries husbands one after another, 
and folds her hands resignedly — ‘The Lord gave, and the 
Lord hath taken away, and blessed be the name of the 
Lord’ — and she looks for another. It is the hard- 
headed, deep thinker who, when the wife who has 
thought and worked with him goes, can find no rest, and 
lingers near her till he finds sleep beside her. 

“A great soul draws and is drawn with a more fierce 
intensity than any small one. By every inch we grow in 
intellectual height our love strikes down its roots deeper, 
and spreads out its arms wider. It is for love’s sake yet 
more than for any other that we look for that new time.” 

She had leaned her head against the stones, and 
watched with her sad, soft eyes the retreating bird. 
“Then when that time comes,” she said lowly, “when 
love is no more bought or sold, when it is not a means of 
making bread, when each woman's life is filled with 
earnest, independent labor, then love will come to her, a 
strange, sudden sweetness breaking in upon her earnest 
work; not sought for, but found. Then, but not 
now ” 

Waldo waited for her to finish the sentence, but she 
seemed to have forgotten him. 

“Lyndall,” he said, putting his hand upon her — she 
started — “if you think that that new time will be so 
great, so good, you who speak so easily ” 

She interrupted him. 

“Speak! speak!” she said, “the difficulty is not to 
speak; the difficulty is to keep silence.” 

“But why do you not try to bring that time?” he said 
with pitiful simplicity. “When you speak I believe all 
you say; other people would listen to you also.” 

“I am not so sure of that,” she said with a smile. 

Then over the small face came the weary look it had 
worn last night as it watched the shadow in the corner. 
Ah, so weary! 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


191 


‘‘I, Waldo, I?’^ she said. “I will do nothing good for 
myself, nothing for the world, till some one wakes me. 
I am asleep, swathed, shut up in self; till I have been 
delivered I will deliver no one.’^ 

He looked at her wondering, but she was not looking 
at him. 

“To see the good and the beautiful,” she said, “and 
to have no strength to live it, is only to be Moses on the 
mountain of Nebo, with the land at your feet and no 
power to enter. It would be better not to see it. Come,” 
she said, looking up into his face, and seeing its uncom- 
prehending expression, “let us go, it is getting late. Doss 
is anxious for his breakfast also,” she added, wheeling 
round and calling to the dog, who was endeavoring to 
unearth a mole, an occupation to which he had been 
zealously addicted from the third month, but in which 
he had never on any single occasion proved successful. 

Waldo shouldered his bag, and Lyndall walked on be- 
fore in silence, with the dog close to her side. Perhaps 
she thought of the narrowness of the limits within which 
a human soul may speak and be understood by its near- 
est of mental kin, of how soon it reaches that solitary 
land of the individual experience, in which no fellow 
footfall is ever heard. Whatever her thoughts may have 
been, she was soon interrupted. Waldo came close to 
her, and standing still, produced with awkwardness from 
his breastpocket a small carved box. 

“I made it for you,” he said, holding it out. 

“I like it,” she said, examining it carefully. 

The workmanship was better than that of the grave- 
post. The flowers that covered it were delicate, and here 
and there small conical protuberances were let in among 
them. She turned it round critically. Waldo bent over 
it lovingly. 

“There is one strange thing about it,” he said ear- 


192 


TBE STOUT OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


nestly, putting a finger on one little pyramid. “I made it 
without these, and I felt something was wrong; I tried 
many changes, and at last I let these in, and then it was 
right. But why was it? They are not beautiful in 
themselves.’’ 

‘‘They relieve thje monotony of the smooth leaves, I 
suppose.” 

He shook his head as over a weighty matter. 

“The sky is monotonous,” he said, “when it is blue, 
and yet it is beautiful. I have thought of that often; 
but it is not monotony and it is not variety makes beauty. 
What is it? The sky, and your face, and this box — the 
same thing is in them all, only more in the sky and in 
your face. But what is it?” 

She smiled. 

“So you are at your old work still. Why, why, why? 
What is the reason? It is enough for me,” she said, “if 
I find out what is beautiful and what is ugly, what is real 
and what is not. Why it is there, and over the final 
cause of things in general, I don’t trouble myself; there 
must be one, but what is it to me? If I howl to all eter- 
nity I shall never get hold of it; and if I did I might be 
no better off. But you Germans are born with an apti - 
tude for burrowing; you can’t help yourselves. You 
must sniff after reasons, just as that dog must after a 
mole. He knows perfectly well he will never catch it, 
but he’s under the imperative necessity of digging for it.” 

“But he might find it.” 

Might ! — but he never has and never will. Life is too 
short to run after mights; we must have certainties.” 

She tucked the box under her arm and was about to 
walk on, when Gregory Eose, with shining spurs, an 
ostrich feather in his hat, and a silver-headed whip, 
careered past. He bowed gallantly as he went by. They 
waited till the dust of the horse’s hoofs had laid itself. 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


193 


“There/’ said Lyndall, “goes a true woman — one born 
for the sphere that some women have to fill without being 
born for it. How happy he would be sewing frills into 
his little girl’s frocks, and how pretty he would look sit- 
ting in a parlor, with a rough man making love to him! 
Don’t you think so?” 

“H shall not stay here when he is master,” Waldo an- 
swered, not able to connect any kind of beauty with 
Gregory Rose. 

“I should imagine not. The rule of a woman is 
tyranny; but the rule of a man-woman grinds fine. Where 
are you going?” 

“Anywhere.” 

“What to do?” 

“See — see everything.” 

“You will be disappointed.” 

“And were you?” 

“Yes; and you will be more so. I want some things 
that men and the world give, you do not. If you have a 
few yards of earth to stand on, and a bit of blue over you, 
and something that you cannot see to dream about, you 
have all that you need, all that you know how to use. 
But I like to see real men. Let them be as disagreeable 
as they please, they are more interesting to me than 
fiowers, or trees, or stars, or any other thing under the 
sun. Sometimes,” she added, walking on, and shaking 
the dust daintily from her skirts, “when I am not too 
busy trying to find a new way of doing my hair that will 
show my little neck to better advantage, or over other 
work of that kind, sometimes it amuses me intensely to 
trace out the resemblance between one man and another: 
to see how Tant’ Sannie and I, you and Bonaparte, St. 
Simon on his pillow, and the emperor dining off lark’s 
tongues, are one and the same compound, merely mixed 
in different proportions. 


104 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


“What is microscopic in one is largely developed in 
another; what is a rudimentary in one man is an active 
organ in another; but all things are in all men, and one 
soul is the model of all. We shall find nothing new in 
human nature after we have once carefully dissected and 
analyzed the one being we ever shall truly know— ourself. 
The Kafier girl threw some coffee on my arm in bed this 
morning; I felt displeased, but said nothing. Tant’ 
Sannie would have thrown the saucer at her and sworn 
for an hour; but the feeling would be the same irritated 
displeasure. If a huge animated stomach like Bonaparte 
were put under a glass by a skillful mental microscopist, 
even he would be found to have an embryonic doubling 
somewhere indicative of a heart, and rudimentary bud- 
dings that might have become conscience and sincerity. 
Let me take your arm, Waldo. 

“How full you are of mealie dust. No, never mind. 
It will brush off. And sometimes what is more amusing 
still than tracing the likeness between man and man, is 
to trace the analogy there always is between the progress 
and development of one individual and of a whole nation; 
or, again, between a single nation and the entire human 
race. It is pleasant when it dawns on you that the one 
is just the other written out in large letters; and very 
odd to find all the little follies and virtues, and develop- 
ments and retrogressions, written out in the big world’s 
book that you find in your little internal self. It is the 
most amusing thing I know of; but of course, being a 
woman, I have not often time for such amusements. 
Professional duties always first, you know. It takes a 
great deal of time and thought always to look perfectly 
exquisite, even for a pretty woman. Is the old buggy 
still in existence, Waldo?” 

“Yes, but the harness is broken.” 

“Well, I wish you would mend it. You must teach me 


THE STORY OF AH AFRICAH FARM. 


195 


to drive. I must learn something while I am here. I 
got the Hottentot girl to show me how to make ‘sarsar- 
ties^ this morning; and Tant’ Sannie is going to teach 
me to make ‘kapjes.’ I will come and sit with you this 
afternoon while you mend the harness.^’ 

‘‘Thank you.^’ 

“No, don’t thank me; I come for my own pleasure. I 
never find any one I can talk to. Women bore me, and 
men, I talk so to — ‘Going to the ball this evening? Nice 
little dog that of yours. Pretty little ears. So fond of 
pointer pups!’ And they think me fascinating, charm- 
ing! Men are like the earth, and we are the moon; we 
turn always one side to them, and they think there is no 
other, because they don’t see it — but there is.” 

They had reached the house now. 

“Tell me when you set to work,” she said, and walked 
toward the door. 

Waldo stood to look after her, and Doss stood at his 
side, a look of painful uncertainty depicted on his small 
countenance, and one little foot poised in the air. 
Should he stay with his master or go? He looked at the 
figure with the wide straw hat moving toward the house, 
and he looked up at his master; then he put down the 
little paw and went. Waldo watched them both in at the 
door and then walked away alone. He was satisfied that 
at least his dog was with her. 


CHAPTER V. 

tant’ sannie holds an upsitting, and geegory 

WRITES A LETTER. 

It was just after sunset, and Lyndall had not yet re- 
turned from her first driving-lesson, when the lean 
colored woman, standing at the corner of the house to 


196 


THE 8T0RT OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


enjoy the evening breeze, saw coming along the road a 
strange horseman. Very narrowly she surveyed him, as 
slowly he approached. He was attired in the deepest 
mourning, the black crape round his tall hat totally con- 
cealing the black felt, and nothing but a dazzling shirt- 
front relieving the funereal tone of his attire. He rode 
much forward in his saddle, with his chin resting on the 
uppermost of his shirt-studs, and there was an air of 
meek subjection to the will of heaven, and to what might 
be in store for him, that bespoke itself even in the way in 
which he gently urged his steed. He was evidently in 
no hurry to reach his destination, for the nearer he ap- 
proached to it the slacker did his bridle hang. The 
colored woman having duly inspected him, dashed into 
the dwelling. 

‘‘Here is another one!’’ she cried — “a widower; I see 
it by his hat.” 

“Good Lord!” said Tant’ Sannie; “it’s the seventh 
I’ve had this month; but the men know where sheep and 
good looks and money in the bank are to be found,” she 
added, winking knowingly. “How does he look?” 

“Nineteen, weak eyes, white hair, little round nose,” 
said the maid. 

“Then it’s he! then it’s he!” said Tant’ Sannie 
triumphantly; “Little Piet Vander Walt, whose wife died 
last month — two farms, twelve thousand sheep. I’ve not 
seen him, but my sister-in-law told me about him, and I 
dreamed about him last night.” 

Here Piet’s black hat appeared in the doorway, and 
the Boer-woman drew herself up in dignified silence, 
extended the tips of her fingers, and motioned solemnly 
to a chair. The young man seated himself, sticking his 
feet as far under it as they would go, and said mildly: 

“I am Little Piet Vander Walt, and my father is Big 
Piet Vander Walt.” 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


197 


Tant’ Sannie said solemnly: “Yes.’’ 

“Aunt,” said the young man, starting up spasmod- 
ically; “can I off-saddle?” 

“Yes.” 

He seized his hat, and disappeared with a rush through 
the door. 

“I told you so! I knew it!” said Tant’ Sannie. “The 
dear Lord doesn’t send dreams for nothing. Didn’t I 
tell you this morning that I dreamed of a great beast like 
a sheep, with red eyes, and I killed it? Wasn’t the white 
wool his hair, and the red eyes his weak eyes, and my 
killing him meant marriage? Get supper ready quickly; 
the sheep’s inside and roaster-cakes. We shall sit up 
to-night.” 

To young Piet Vander Walt that supper was a period 
of intense torture. There was something overawing in 
that assembly of English people, with their incompre- 
hensible speech; and moreover, it was his first courtship; 
his first wife had courted him, and ten months of severe 
domestic rule had not raised his spirit nor courage. He 
ate little, and when he raised a morsel to his lipsr glanced 
guiltily round to see if he were not observed. He had 
put three rings on his little finger, with the intention of 
sticking it out stiffly when he raised a coffee-cup; now 
the little finger was curled miserably among its fellows. 
It was small relief when the meal was over, and Tant’ 
Sannie and he repaired to the front room. Once seated 
there, he set his knees close together, stood his black hat 
upon them, and wretchedly turned the brim up and 
down. But supper had cheered Tant’ Sannie, who found 
it impossible longer to maintain that decorous silence, 
and whose heart yearned over the youth. 

“I was related to your aunt Selena who died,” said 
Tant’ Sannie. “My mother’s step-brother’s child was 
married to her father’s brother’s step-nephew’s niece.” 


198 


TEE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


‘‘Yes, aunt,” said the young man, “I know we were 
related.” 

“It was her cousin,” said Tant’ Sannie, now fairly on 
the flow, “who had the cancer cut out of her breast by 
the other doctor, who was not the right doctor they sent 
for, but who did it quite as well.” 

“Yes, aunt,” said the young man. 

“I’ve heard about it often,” said Tant’ Sannie. “And 
he was the son of the old doctor that they say died on 
Christmas day ; but I don’t know if that’s true. People 
do tell such awful lies. Why should he die on Christmas 
day more than any other day?” 

“Yes, aunt, why?” said the young man meekly. 

“Did you ever have the toothache?” asked Tant’ 
Sannie. 

“No, aunt.” 

“Well, they say that doctor — not the son of the old 
doctor that died on Christmas day, the other that didn’t 
come when he was sent for — he gave such good stuff for 
the toothache that if you opened the bottle in the room 
where any one was bad they got better directly. You 
could see it was good stuff,” said Tant’ Sannie; “it 
tasted horrid. That was a real doctor! He used to give 
a bottle so high,” said the Boer-woman, raising her hand 
a foot from the table, “you could drink at it for a month 
and it wouldn’t get done, and the same medicine was 
good for all sorts of sicknesses — croup, measles, jaundice, 
dropsy. Now you have to buy a new kind for each sick- 
ness. The doctors aren’t so good as they used to be.” 

“No, aunt,” said the young man, who was trying to 
gain courage to stick out his legs and clink his spurs to- 
gether. He did so at last. 

Tant’ Sannie had noticed the spurs before; but she 
thought it showed a nice manly spirit, and her heart 
warmed yet more to the youth. 


THE STORY OF AH AFRICAN FARM. 


199 


‘^Did you ever have convulsions when you were a 
baby?’’ asked Tant’ Sannie. 

“Yes,” said the young man. 

“Strange,” said Tant’ Sannie; “I had convulsions too. 
Wonderful that we should be so much alike!” 

“Aunt,” said the young man explosively, “can we sit 
up to-night?” 

Tant’ Sannie hung her head and half-closed her eyes; 
but finding that her little wiles were throw away, the 
young man staring fixedly at his hat, she simpered, 
“Yes,” and went away to fetch candles. 

In the dining-room Em worked at her machine, and 
Gregory sat close beside her, his great blue eyes turned 
to the window where Lyndall leaned out talking to 
Waldo. 

Tant’ Sannie took two candles out of the cupboard and 
held them up triumphantly, winking all round the room. 

“He’s asked for them,” she said. 

“Does he want them for his horse’s rubbed back?” 
asked Gregory, new to up-country life. 

“No,” said Tant’ Sannie indignantly; “we’re going 
to sit up!” and she walked off in triumph with the 
candles. 

Nevertheless, when all the rest of the house had re- 
tired, when the long candle was lighted, when the cofiee- 
kettle was filled, when she sat in the elbow-chair, with 
her lover on a chair close beside her, and when the vigil 
of the night was fairly begun, she began to find it weari- 
some. The young man looked chilly, and said nothing. 

“Won’t you put your feet on my stove?” said Tant’ 
Sannie. 

“No, thank you, aunt,” said the young man, and both 
lapsed into silence. 

At last Tant’ Sannie, afraid of going to sleep, tapped 
a strong cup of coffee for herself and handed another to 
her lover, This visibly revived both, 


200 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


‘^How long were you married, cousin?’’ 

‘‘Ten months, aunt.” 

“How old was your baby?” 

“Three days when it died.” 

“It’s very hard when we must give our husbands and 
wives to the Lord,” said Tant’ Sannie. 

“Very,” said the young man; “but it’s the Lord’s 
will.” 

“Yes,” said Tant’ Sannie, and sighed. 

“She was such a good wife, aunt: I’ve known her 
break a churn-stick over a maid’s head for only letting 
dust come on a milk cloth.” 

Tant’ Sannie felt a twinge of jealousy. She had never 
broken a churn-stick on a maid’s head. 

“I hope your wife made a good end,” she said. 

“Oh, beautiful, aunt: she said up a psalm and two 
hymns and a half before she died.” 

“Did she leave any messages?” asked Tant’ Sannie. 

“No,” said the young man; “but the night before she 
died I was lying at the foot of her bed; I felt her foot 
kick me. 

“ ‘Piet,’ she said. 

“ ‘Annie, my heart,’ said I. 

“ ‘My little baby that died yesterday has been here, 
and it stood over the wagon-box,’ she said. 

“ ‘What did it say?’ I asked. 

“ ‘It said that if I died you must marry a fat woman.’ 

“ ‘I will,’ I said, and I went to sleep again. Presently 
she woke me. 

“ ‘The little baby has been here again, and it says you 
must marry a woman over thirty, and who’s had two hus- 
bands.’ 

“I didn’t go to sleep after that for a long time, aunt; 
but when I did she woke me. 

“ ‘The baby has been here again,’ she said, ‘and it says 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


201 


you mustn’t marry a woman with a mole.’ I told her I 
wouldn’t; and the next day she died.” 

‘‘That was a vision from the Eedeemer,” said Tant’ 
Sannie. 

The young man nodded his head mournfully. He 
thought of a younger sister of his wife’s who was not fat, 
and who had a mole, and of whom his wife had always 
been jealous, and he wished the little baby had liked 
better staying in heaven than coming and standing over 
the wagon-chest. 

“I suppose that’s why you came to me,” said Tant’ 
Sannie. 

“Yes, aunt. And pa said I ought to get married be- 
fore shearing-time. It is bad if there’s no one to see 
after things then; and the maids waste such a lot of fat.” 

“When do you want to get married?” 

“Next month, aunt,” said the young man in a tone of 
hopeless resignation. “May I kiss you, aunt?” 

“Fie! fie!” said Tant’ Sannie, and then gave him a 
resounding kiss. “Come, draw your chair a little 
closer,” she said, and, their elbows now touching, they 
sat on through the night. 

The next morning at dawn, as Em passed through 
Tant’ Sannie’s bedroom, she found the Boer-woman pull- 
ing off her boots preparatory to climbing into bed. 

“Where is Piet Vander Walt?” 

“Just gone,” said Tant’ Sannie; “and I am going to 
marry him this day four weeks. I am dead sleepy,” she 
added; “the stupid thing doesn’t know how to talk love- 
talk at all, ’’and she climbed into the four-poster^ clothes 
and all, and drew the quilt up to her chin. 

On the day preceding Tant’ Sannie’s wedding, Gregory 
Rose sat in the blazing sun on the stone wall behind his 
daub-and-wattle house. It was warm, but he was in- 


202 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


tently watching a small buggy that was being recklessly 
driven over the hushes in the direction of the farmhouse. 
Gregory never stirred till it had vanished; then, finding 
the stones hot, he slipped down and walked into the 
house. He kicked the little pail that lay in the doorway, 
and sent it into one corner; that did him good. Then 
he sat down on the box, and began cutting letters out of 
a piece of newspaper. Finding that the snippings littered 
the fioor, he picked them up and began scribbling on his 
blotting-paper. He tried the effect of different initials 
before the name Rose: G. Rose, E. Rose, L. Rose, L. 
L. Rose, L. L. L. Rose. When he had covered the 
sheet, he looked at it discontentedly a little while, then 
suddenly began to write a letter: 

“Beloved Sister: It is a long while since I last 
wrote to you, but I have had no time. This is the first 
morning I have been at home since I don’t know when. 
Em always expects me to go down to the farmhouse in 
the morning; but I didn’t feel as though I could stand 
the ride to-day. 

“I have much news for you. 

“Tanf Sannie, Em’s Boer stepmother, is to be married 
to-morrow. She is gone to town to-day, and the wedding 
feast is to be at her brother’s farm. Em and I are going 
to ride over on horseback, but her cousin is going to ride 
in the buggy with that German. I don’t think I’ve 
written to you since she came back from school. I don’t 
think you would like her at all, Jemima; there’s some- 
thing so proud about her. She thinks just because she’s 
handsome there’s nobody good enough to talk to her, 
and just as if there had nobody else but her been to board- 
ing school before. 

“They are going to have a grand affair to-morrow; all 
the Boers about are coming, and they are going to dance 
all night; but I don’t think I shall dance at all; for, as 
Em’s cousin says, these Boer dances are low things. I 
am sure I only danced at the last to please Em. I don’t 
know why she is fond of dancing. Em talked of our 
being married on the same day as Tant’ Sannie; but 1 


THE 8T0RT OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


203 


said it would be nicer for her if she waited till the shear- 
ing was over, and I took her down to see you. I suppose 
she will have to live with us (Em’s cousin, I mean), as 
she has not anything in the world but a poor fifty pounds. 
I don’t like her at all, Jemima, and I don’t think you 
would. She’s got such queer ways; she’s always driving 
about in a gig with that low German; and I don’t think 
it’s at all the thing for a woman to be going about with a 
man she’s not engaged to. Do you? If it was me now, 
of course, who am a kind of connection, it would be dif- 
ferent. The way she treats me, considering that I am so 
soon to be her cousin, is not at all nice. I took down my 
album the other day with your likenesses in it, and I told 
her she could look at it, and put it down close to her; 
but she just said. Thank you, and never even touched it, as 
much as to say — What are your relations to me? 

‘‘She gets the wildest horses in that buggy, and a 
horrid snappish little cur belonging to the German sit- 
ting in front, and then she drives out alone. I don’t 
think it’s at all proper for a woman to drive out alone; I 
wouldn’t allow it if she was my sister. The other morn- 
ing, I don’t know how it happened, I was going in the 
way from which she was coming, and that little beast — 
they call him Doss — began to bark when he saw me — he 
always does, the little wretch — and the horses began to 
spring, and kicked the splashboard all to pieces. It was a 
sight to see Jemima! She has got the littlest hands I 
ever saw — I could hold them both in one of mine, and not 
know that I’d got anything except that they were so 
soft; but she held those horses in as though they were 
made of iron. When I wanted to help her she said, ‘No, 
thank you: I can manage them myself. I’ve got a pair 
of bits that would break their jaws if I used them well,’ 
and she laughed and drove away. It’s so unwomanly. 

“Tell father my hire of the ground will not be out for 
six months, and before that Em and I will be married. 
My pair of birds is breeding now, but I haven’t been 
down to see them for three days. I don’t seem to care 
about anything any more. I don’t know what it is; I'm 
not well. If I go into town on Saturday I will let the 
doctor examine me; but perhaps she’ll go in herself. 
It’s a very strange thing, Jemima, but she never will 
send her letters to post by me. If I ask her she has none, 


204 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM, 


and the very next day she goes in and posts them herself. 
You mustn^t say anything about it, Jemima, but twice 
I’ve brought her letters from the post in a gentleman’s 
hand, and I’m sure they were both from the same person, 
because I noticed every little mark, even the dotting of 
the Fs, 

“Of course it’s nothing to me; but for Em’s sake I 
can’t help feeling an interest in her, however much I may 
dislike her myself; and I hope she’s up to nothing. I 
pity the man who marries her; I wouldn’t be him for 
anything. If I had a wife with pride I’d make her give 
it up, sharp. I don’t believe in a man who can’t make 
a woman obey him. Now Em — I’m very fond of her, as 
you know — but if I tell her to put on a certain dress^, 
that dress she puts on; and if I tell her to sit on a certain 
seat, on that seat she sits; and if I tell her not to speak 
to a certain individual, she does not speak to them. If a 
man lets a woman do what he doesn’t like he^s a muff. 

“Give my love to mother and the children. The 
‘veld’ here is looking pretty good, and the sheep are 
better since we washed them. Tell father the dip he 
recommended is very good. 

“Em sends her love to you. She is making me some 
woolen shirts; but they don’t fit me so nicely as those 
mother made me. 

“Write soon to 

“Your loving brother, 

“Gregory. 

“P. S. — She drove past just now; I was sitting on the 
kraal wall right before her eyes, and she never even 
bowed. G. N. K.” 


CHAPTEE VI. 

A BOER-WEDDING. 

“I didn’t know before you were so fond of riding 
hard,” said Gregory to his little betrothed. 

They were cantering slowly on the road to Oom Mul- 
ler’s on the morning of the wedding. 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


205 


‘‘Do you call this riding hard?^’ asked Em in some 
astonishment. 

“Of course I do! It^s enough to break the horses’ 
necks, and knock one up for the whole day besides,” he 
added testily; then twisted his head to look at the buggy 
that came on behind. “I thought Waldo was such a mad 
driver; they are taking it easily enough to-day,” said 
Gregory. “One would think the black stallions were 
lame.” 

“I suppose they want to keep out of our dust,” said 
Em. “See, they stand still as soon as we do.” 

Perceiving this to be the case, Gregory rode on. 

“It’s all that horse of yours: she kicks up such a con- 
founded dust I can’t stand it myself,” he said. 

Meanwhile the cart came on slowly enough. 

“Take the reins,” said Lyndall, “and make them walk. 
I want to rest and watch their hoofs to-day — not to be 
exhilarated; I am so tired.” 

She leaned back in her corner, and Waldo drove on 
slowly in the gray dawn light along the level road. They 
passed the very milk-bush behind which so many years 
before the old German had found the Kaffer woman. 
But their thoughts were not with him that morning: 
they were the thoughts of the young that run out to meet 
the future, and labor in the present. At last he touched 
her arm. 

“What is it?” 

“I feared you had gone to sleep and might be jolted 
out,” he said; “you sat so quietly.” 

“No; do not talk to me; I am not asleep;” but after a 
time she said suddenly: “It must be a terrible thing to 
bring a human being into the world.” 

Waldo looked round; she sat drawn into the corner, 
her blue cloud wound tightly about her, and she still 
watched the horses’ feet. Having no comment to offer 


206 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


on her somewhat unexpected remark, he merely touched 
up his horses. 

“I have no conscience, none,^’ she added; ‘‘but I would 
not like to bring a soul into this world. When it sinned 
and when it suffered something like a dead hand would 
fall on me — ‘You did it, you, for your own pleasure you 
created this thing! See your work!’ If it lived to be 
eighty it would always hang like a millstone round my 
neck, have the right to demand good from me, and curse 
me for its sorrow. A parent is only like to God — if his 
work turns out bad, so much the worse for him; he dare 
not wash his hands of it. Time and years can never 
bring the day when you can say to your child: ‘Soul, 
what have I to do with you?’ ” 

Waldo said dreamingly: 

“It is a marvelous thing that one soul should have 
power to cause another.” 

She heard the words as she heard the beating of the 
horses’ hoofs; her thoughts ran on in their own line. 

“They say, ‘God sends the little babies.’ Of all the 
dastardly revolting lies men tell to suit themselves, I hate 
that most. I suppose my father said so when he knew 
he was dying of consumption, and my mother when she 
knew she had nothing to support me on, and they created 
me to feed like a dog from stranger hands. Men do not 
say God sends the books, or the newspaper articles, or 
the machines they make; and then sigh, and shrug their 
shoulders and say they can’t help it. Why do they say 
so about other things? Liars! ‘God sends the little 
babies!’ ” She struck her foot fretfully against the 
splashboard. “The small children say so earnestly. 
They touch the little stranger reverently who has just 
come from God’s far country, and they peep about the 
room to see if not one white feather has dropped from 
the wing of the angel that brought him. On their lips 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


207 


the phrase means much; on all others it is a deliberate 
lie. Noticeable, too/^ she said, dropping in an instant 
from the passionate into a low, mocking tone, ‘%hen 
people are married, though they should have sixty chil- 
dren, they throw the whole onus on God. When they 
are not, we hear nothing about God’s having sent them. 
When there has been no legal contract between the par- 
ents, who sends the little children then? The devil per- 
haps!” She laughed her little silvery, mocking laugh. 
‘‘Odd that some men should come from hell and some 
from heaven, and yet all look so much alike when they 
get here.” 

Waldo wondered at her. He had not the key to her 
thoughts, and did not see the string on which they were 
strung. She drew her cloud tighter about her. 

“It must be very nice to believe in the devil,” she 
said; “1 wish I did. If it would be of any use I would 
pray three hours night and morning on my bare knees, 
‘God, let me believe in Satan.’ He is so useful to those 
people who do. They may be as selfish and as sensual as 
they please', and, between God’s will and the devil’s 
action, always have some one to throw their sin on. But 
we, wretched unbelievers, we bear our own burdens: we 
must say, ‘I myself did it, I. Not God, not Satan; I my- 
self!’ That is the sting that strikes deep. Waldo,” she 
said gently, with a sudden and complete change of man- 
ner, “I like you so much, I love you.” She rested her 
cheek softly against his shoulder. “When I am with you 
I never know that I am a woman and you are a man; I 
only know that we are both things that think. Other 
men when I am with them, whether I love them or not, 
they are mere bodies to me; but you are a spirit; I like 
you. Look,” she said quickly, sinking back into her 
corner, “what a pretty pinkness there is on all the hill- 
tops! The sun will rise in a moment.’^ 


208 


THE 8T0RT OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


Waldo lifted his eyes to look round over the circle of 
golden hills; and the horses, as the first sunbeams 
touched them, shook their heads and champed their 
bright bits, till the brass settings in their harness glit- 
tered again. 

It was eight o’clock when they neared the farmhouse: 
a red-brick building, with kraals to the right and a small 
orchard to the left. Already there were signs of unusual 
life and bustle: one cart, a wagon, and a couple of sad- 
dles against the wall betokened the arrival of a few early 
guests, whose numbers would soon be largely increased. 
To a Dutch country wedding guests start up in numbers 
astonishing to one who has merely ridden through the 
plains of sparsely inhabited karroo. 

As the morning advances, riders on many shades of 
steeds appear from all directions, and add their saddles 
to the long rows against the walls, shake hands, drink 
coffee, and stand about outside in groups to watch the 
arriving carts and ox-wagons, as they are unburdened of 
their heavy freight of massive Tantes and comely daugh- 
ters, followed by swarms of children of all sizes, dressed 
in all manner of print and moleskin, who are taken care 
of by Hottentot, Kaffer, and half-caste nurses, whose 
many-shaded complexions, ranging from light yellow up 
to ebony black, add variety to the animated scene. 

Everywhere is excitement and bustle, which gradually 
increases as the time for the return of the wedding-party 
approaches. Preparations for the feast are actively ad- 
vancing in the kitchen; coffee is liberally handed round, 
and amid a profound sensation, and the firing of guns, 
the horse-wagon draws up, and the wedding-party 
alight. Bride and bridegroom, with their attendants, 
march solemnly to the marriage-chamber, where bed and 
box are decked out in white, with ends of ribbon and 
artificial flowers, and where on a row of chairs the party 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


209 


solemnly seat themselves. After a time bridesmaid and 
best man rise, and conduct in with ceremony each indi- 
vidual guest, to wish success and to kiss bride and bride- 
groom. 

Then the feast is set on the table, and it is almost sun- 
set before the dishes are cleared away, and the pleasure 
of the day begins. Everything is removed from the 
great front room, and the mud floor, well rubbed with 
bullock’s blood, glistens like polished mahogany. The 
female portion of the assembly flock into the side-rooms 
to attire themselves for the evening; and re-issue clad in 
white muslin, and gay with bright ribbons and brass 
jewelry. The dancing begins as the flrst tallow candles 
are stuck up about the walls, the music coming from a 
couple of flddlers in a corner of the room. Bride and 
bridegroom open the ball, and the floor is soon covered 
with whirling couples, and every one’s spirits rise. The 
bridal pair mingle freely in the throng, and here and 
there a musical man sings vigorously as he drags his 
partner through the Blue Water or John Speriwig; boys 
shout and applaud, and the enjoyment and confusion are 
intense, till eleven o’clock comes. By this time the 
children who swarm in the side-rooms are not to be kept 
quiet longer, even by hunches of bread and cake; there 
is a general howl and wail, that rises yet higher than the 
scraping of Addles, and mothers rush from their partners 
to knock small heads together, and cuff little nurse- 
maids, and force the wailers down into unoccupied cor- 
ners of beds, under tables and behind boxes. In half an 
hour every variety of childish snore is heard on all sides, 
and it has become perilous to raise or set down a foot in 
any of the side-rooms lest a small head or hand should be 
crushed. 

Now too the busy feet have broken the solid coating of 
the floor, and a cloud of fine dust arises, that makes a 


210 


THE STOUT OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


yellow halo round the candles, and sets asthmatic people 
coughing, and grows denser, till to recognize any one on 
the opposite side of the room becomes impossible, and a 
partner’s face is seen through a yellow mist. 

At twelve o’clock the bride is led to the marriage- 
chamber and undressed; the lights are blown out, and 
the bridegroom is brought to the door by the best man, 
who gives him the key; then the door is shut and locked, 
and the revels rise higher than ever. There is no 
thought of sleep till morning, and no unoccupied spot 
where sleep may be found. 

It was at this stage of the proceedings on the night of 
Tant’ Sannie’s wedding that Lyndall sat near the door- 
way in one of the side-rooms, to watch the dancers as 
they appeared and disappeared in the yellow cloud of 
dust. Gregory sat moodily in a corner of the large danc- 
ing-room. His little betrothed touched his arm. 

“I wish you would go and ask Lyndall to dance with 
you,” she said; “she must be so tired; she has sat still 
the whole evening.” 

“I have asked her three times,” replied her lover 
shortly. “I’m not going to be her dog, and creep to her 
feet, just to give her the pleasure of kicking me — not for 
you, Em, nor for anybody else.” 

“Oh, I didn’t know you had asked her, Greg,” said his 
little betrothed humbly; and she went away to pour out 
coffee. 

Nevertheless, some time after Gregory found he had 
shifted so far round the room as to be close to the door 
where Lyndall sat. After standing for some time he in- 
quired whether he might not bring her a cup of coffee. 

She declined; but still he stood on (why should he not 
stand there as well as anywhere else?), and then he 
stepped into the bedroom. 

“May I not bring you a stove. Miss Lyndall, to put 
your feet on?” 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


211 


‘‘Thank you/’ 

He sought for one, and put it under her feet. 

“There is a draught from that broken window; shall I 
stuff something in the pane?” 

“No; we want air.” 

Gregory looked round, hut nothing else suggesting it- 
self, he sat down on a box on the opposite side of the 
door. Lyndall sat before him, her chin resting in her 
hand; her eyes, steel-gray by day, hut black by night, 
looked through the doorway into the next room. After 
a time he thought she had entirely forgotten liis proxim- 
ity, and he dared to inspect the little hands and neck as 
he never dared when he was in momentary dread of the 
eyes being turned upon him. 

She was dressed in black, which seemed to take her yet 
further from the white-clad, gewgawed women about her; 
and the little hands were white, and the diamond ring 
glittered. Where had she got that ring? He bent for- 
ward a little and tried to decipher the letters, but the 
candlelight was too faint. When he looked up her eyes 
were fixed on him. She was looking at him — not, 
Gregory felt, as she had ever looked at him before; not 
as though he were a stump or a stone that chance had 
thrown in her way. To-night, whether it were critically, 
or kindly, or unkindly, he could not tell, but she looked 
at him, at the man, Gregory Eose, with attention. A 
vague elation filled him. He clinched his fist tight to 
think of some good idea he might express to her; but of 
all those profound things he had pictured himself as say- 
ing to her, when he sat alone in the daub-and-wattle 
house, not one came. He said at last: 

“These Boer dances are very low things;” and then, 
as soon as it had gone from him, he thought it was not a 
clever remark, and wished it back. 

Before Lyndall replied Em looked in at the door» 


212 


THE STOB Y OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


‘‘Oh, come,” she said; “they are going to have the 
cnshion-dance. I do not want to kiss any of these fel- 
lows. Take me quickly.” 

She slipped her hand into Oregory’s arm. 

“It is so dusty, Em; do you care to dance any more?” 
he asked, without rising. 

“Oh, I do not mind the dust, and the dancing rests 
me.” 

But he did not move. 

“I feel tired; I do not think I shall dance again,” he 
said. 

Em withdrew her hand, and a young farmer came to 
the door and bore her off. 

“I have often imagined,” remarked Gregory — but 
Lyndall had risen. 

“I am tired,” she said. “I wonder where Waldo is; 
he must take me home. These people will not leave off 
till morning, I suppose; it is three already.” 

She made her way past the fiddlers, and a bench full of 
tired dancers, and passed out at the front door. On the 
“stoop” a group of men and boys were smoking, peeping 
in at the windows, and cracking coarse jokes. Waldo 
was certainly not among them, and she made her way to 
the carts and wagons drawn up at some distance from the 
homestead. 

“Waldo,” she said, peering into a large cart, “is that 
you? I am so dazed with the tallow candles, I see 
nothing.” 

He had made himself a place between the two seats. 
She climbed up and sat on the sloping floor in front. 

“I thought I should find you here,” she said, drawing 
her skirt up about her shoulders. “You must take me 
home presently, but not now.” 

She leaned her head on the seat near to his, and they 
listened in silence to the fitful twanging of the fiddles as 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


213 


the night-wind bore it from the farmhouse, and to the 
ceaseless thud of the dancers, and the peals of gross 
laughter. She stretched out her little hand to feel for 
his. 

‘‘It is so nice to lie here and hear that noise, she said. 
“I like to feel that strange life heating up against me. I 
like to realize forms of life utterly unlike mine.’^ She 
drew a long breath. “When my own life feels small, and 
I am oppressed with it, I like to crush together, and see 
it in a picture, in an instant, a multitude of disconnected 
unlike phases of human life — a mediaeval monk with his 
string of beads pacing the quiet orchard, and looking up 
from the grass at his feet to the heavy fruit-trees; little 
Malay boys playing naked on a shining sea-beach; a Hin- 
doo philosopher alone under his banyan tree, thinking, 
thinking, thinking, so that in the thought of God he may 
lose himself; a troop of Bacchanalians dressed in white, 
with crowns of vine-leaves, dancing along the Eoman 
streets; a martyr on the night of his death looking 
through the narrow window to the sky, and feeling that 
already he has the wings that shall bear him up’’ (she 
moved her hand dreamily over her face); “an epicurean 
discoursing at a Eoman bath to a knot of his disciples on 
the nature of happiness; a Kaffer witch-doctor seeking 
for herbs by moonlight, while from the huts on the hill- 
side come the sound of dogs barking, and the voices of 
women and children; a mother giving bread and milk to 
her children in little wooden basins and singing the even- 
ing song. I like to see it all; I feel it run through me — 
that life belongs to me; it makes my little life larger, it 
breaks down the narrow walls that shut me in.” 

She sighed and drew a long breath. 

“Have you made any plan?” she asked him presently. 

“Yes,” he said, the words coming in jets, with pauses 
between; “I will take the gray mare— I will travel first— 
I will see the world— then I will find work,” 


214 


TEE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


‘^What work?’^ 

‘‘I do not know/’ 

She made a little impatient movement. 

“That is no plan; travel — see the world — find work! 
If you go into the world aimless, without a definite ob- 
ject, dreaming — dreaming, you will be definitely defeated, 
bamboozled, knocked this way and that. In the end you 
will stand with your beautiful life all spent, and nothing 
to show. They talk of genius — it is nothing but this, 
that a man knows what he can do best, and does it, and 
nothing else. Waldo,” she said, knitting her little 
fingers closer among his, “I wish I could help you; I wish 
I could make you see that you must decide what you will 
be and do. It does not matter what you choose — be a 
farmer, business man, artist, what you will — but know 
your aim, and live for that one thing. We have only one 
life. The secret of success is concentration; wherever 
there has been a great life, or a great wprk, that has gone 
before. Taste everything a little, look at everything a 
little; but live for one thing. Anything is possible to a 
man who knows his end . and moves straight for it, and 
for it alone. I will show you what I mean,” she said 
concisely; “words are gas till you condense them into 
pictures. 

“Suppose a woman, young, friendless as I am, the 
weakest thing on God’s earth. But she must make her 
way through life. What she would be she cannot be be- 
cause she is a woman; so she looks carefully at herself 
and the world about her, to see where her path must be 
made. 

“There is no one to help her; she must help herself. 
She looks. These things she has — a sweet voice, rich in 
subtile intonations; a fair, very fair face, with a power 
of concentrating in itself, and giving expression to, feel- 
ings that otherwise must have been dissipated in words; 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


215 


a rare power of entering into other lives unlike her own, 
and intuitively reading them aright. These qualities she 
has. How shall she use them? A poet, a writer, needs 
only the mental; what use has he for a beautiful body 
that registers clearly mental emotions ? And the painter 
wants an eye for form and color, and the musician an ear 
for time and tune, and the mere drudge has no need for 
mental gifts. 

‘‘But there is one art in which all she has would be 
used, for which they are all necessary — the delicate ex- 
pressive body, the rich voice, the power of mental trans- 
position. The actor, who absorbs and then reflects from 
himself other human lives, needs them all, hut needs not 
much more. This is her end; but how to reach it? Be- 
fore her are endless difficulties: seas must be crossed, 
poverty must be endured, loneliness, want. She must be 
content to wait long before she can even get her feet upon 
the path. If she has made blunders in the past, if she 
has weighted herself with a burden which she must bear 
to the end, she must but bear the burden bravely, and 
labor on. There is no use in wailing and repentance 
here: the next world is the place for that; this life is too 
short. By our errors we see deeper into life. They help 
us.’’ She waited for awhile. “If she does all this — if 
she waits patiently, if she is never cast down, never de- 
spairs, never forgets her end, moves straight toward it, 
bending men and things most unlikely to her purpose — 
she must succeed at last. Men and things are plastic; 
they part to the right and left when one comes among 
them moving in a straight line to one end. I know it by 
my own little experience,” she said. “Long years ago I 
resolved to be sent to school. It seemed a thing utterly 
out of my power; but I waited, I watched, I collected 
clothes, I wrote, took my place at the school; when all 
was ready I bore with my full force on the Boer-woman, 


216 


TEE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


and she sent me at last. It was a small thing; but life is 
made up of small things, as a body is built up of cells. 
What has been done in small things can be done in large. 
Shall be/^ she said softly. 

Waldo listened. To him the words were no confession, 
no glimpse into the strong, proud, restless heart of the 
woman. They were general words with a general appli- 
cation. He looked up into the sparkling sky with dull 
eyes. 

“Yes,’’ he said; “but when we lie and think, and 
think, we see that there is nothing worth doing. The 
universe is so large, and man is so small ” 

She shook her head quickly. 

“But we must not think so far; it is madness, it is a 
disease. We know that no man’s work is great, and 
stands forever. Moses is dead, and the prophets and the 
books that our grandmothers fed on the mold is eating. 
Your poet and painter and actor — before the shouts that 
applaud them have died their names grow strange, they 
are milestones that the world has passed. Men have set 
their mark on mankind forever, as they thought; but 
time has washed it out as it has washed out mountains 
and continents.” She raised herself on her elbow. “And 
what if we could mankind, and leave the traces of 
our work upon it to the end? Mankind is only an ephem- 
eral blossom on the tree of time; there were others 
before it opened; there will be others after it has fallen. 
Where was man in the time of the dicynodont, and when 
hoary monsters wallowed in the mud? Will he be found 
in the seons that are to come? We are sparks, we are 
shadows, we are pollen, which the next wind will carry 
away. We are dying already; it is all a dream. 

“I know that thought. When the fever of living is on 
us, when the desire to become, to know, to do, is driving us 
mad, we can use it as an anodyne, to still the fever and 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


217 


cool our beating pulses. But it is a poison, not a food. 
If we live on it it will turn our blood to ice; we might as 
well be dead. We must not, Waldo; I want your life to 
be beautiful, to end in something. You are nobler and 
stronger than I,’’ she said; ‘‘and as much better as one 
of God’s great angels is better than a sinning man. 
Your life must go for something.” 

“Yes, we will work,” he said. 

She moved closer to him and lay still, his black curls 
touching her smooth little head. 

Doss, who had lain at his master’s side, climbed over 
the bench, and curled himself up in her lap. She drew 
her skirt up over him, and the three sat motionless for a 
long time. 

“Waldo,” she said suddenly, “they are laughing at us.” 

“Who?” he asked, starting up. 

“They — the stars!” she said softly. “Do you not see? 
There is a little white, mocking finger pointing down at 
us from each one of them! We are talking of to-morrow, 
and to-morrow, and our hearts are so strong; we are not 
thinking of something that can touch us softly in the 
dark, and made us still forever. They are laughing at 
us, Waldo.” 

Both sat looking upward. 

“Do you ever pray?” he asked her in a low voice. 

“No.” 

“I never do; but I might when I look up there. I will 
tell you,” he added, in a still lower voice, “where I could 
pray. If there were a wall of rock on the edge of a 
world, and one rock stretched out far, far into space, and 
I stood alone upon it, alone, with stars above me, and 
stars below me— I would not say anything; but the feel- 
ing would be prayer.” 

There was an end to their conversation after that, and 
Doss fell asleep on her knee. At last the night-wind 
grew very chilly. 


218 


THE 8T0RT OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


‘‘Ah/’ she said, shivering, and drawing the skirt about 
her shoulders, “I am cold. Span-in the horses, and call 
me when you are ready.” 

She slipped down and walked toward the house, Doss 
stiffly following her, not pleased at being roused. At the 
door she met Gregory. 

“I have been looking for you everywhere; may I not 
drive you home?” he said. 

“Waldo drives me,” she replied, passing on; and it ap- 
peared to Gregory that she looked at him in the old way, 
without seeing him. But before she had reached the door 
an idea had occurred to her, for she turned. 

“If you wish to drive me you may.” 

Gregory went to look for Em, whom he found pouring 
out coffee in the back room. He put his hand quickly 
on her shoulder. 

“You must ride with Waldo; I am going to drive your 
cousin home.” 

“But I can’t come just now, Greg; I promised Tant’ 
Annie Muller to look after the things while she went to 
rest a little.” 

“Well, you can come presently, can’t you? I didn’t 
say you were to come now. I’m sick of this thing,” said 
Gregory, turning sharply on his heel. “Why must I sit 
up the whole night because your stepmother chooses to 
get married?” 

“Oh, it’s all right, Greg, I only meant ” 

But he did not hear her, and a man had come up to 
have his cup filled. 

An hour after Waldo came in to look for her, and 
found her still busy at the table. 

“The horses are ready,” he said; “but if you would 
like to have one dance more I will wait.” 

She shook her head wearily. 

“No; I am quite ready. I want to go.” 

And soon they were on the sandy road the buggy had 


THE STORY OF AN AFRIGAN FARM, 


219 


traveled an hour before. Their horse's, with heads close 
together, nodding sleepily as they walked in the star- 
light, you might have counted the rise and fall of their 
feet in the sand; and Waldo in his saddle nodded drows- 
ily also. Only Em was awake, and watched the starlit 
road with wide-open eyes. At last she spoke. 

“I wonder if all people feel so old, so very old, when 
they get to be seventeen?” 

‘‘Not older than before,” said Waldo sleepily, pulling 
at his bridle. 

Presently she said again: 

‘T wish I could have been a little child always. You 
are good then. You are never selfish; you like everyone 
to have everything; but when you are grown-up there 
are some things you like to have all to yourself, you don’t 
like any one else to have any of them.” 

“Yes,” said Waldo sleepily, and she did not speak 
again. 

When they reached the farmhouse all was dark, for 
Tiyndall had retired as soon as they got home. 

Waldo lifted Em from her saddle, and for a moment 
she leaned her head on his shoulder and clung to him. 

“You are very tired,” he said, as he walked with her 
to the door; “let me go in and light a candle for you.” 

“No, thank you; it is all right,” she said. “Good- 
night, AValdo clear.” 

But when she went in she sat long alone in the dark. 


CHAPTEK VII. 

WALDO GOES OUT TO TASTE LIFE, AKD EM STAYS AT 
HOME AND TASTES IT. 

At nine o’clock in the evening, packing his bundles for 
the next morning’s start, Waldo looked up, and was sur- 


m 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


prised to see Em’s yellow he^id peeping in at his door. 
It was many a month since she had been there. She said 
she had made him sandwiches for his journey, and she 
stayed awhile to help him put his goods into the saddle- 
bags. 

“You can leave the old things lying about,” she said; 
“I will lock the room, and keep it .waiting for you to 
come back some day.” 

To come back some day! Would the bird ever return 
to its cage? But he thanked her. When she went 
away he stood on the doorstep holding the candle till she 
had almost reached the house. But Em was that even- 
ing in no hurry to enter, and, instead of going in at the 
back door, walked with lagging footsteps round the low 
brick wall that ran before the house. Opposite the open 
window of the parlor she stopped. The little room, kept 
carefully closed in Tant’ Sannie’s time, was well lighted 
by a paraffin lamp; books and work lay strewn about it, 
and it wore a bright, habitable aspect. Beside the lamp 
at the table in the corner sat Lyndall, the open letters 
and papers of the day’s post lying scattered before her, 
while she perused the columns of a newspaper. At the 
center-table with his arms folded on an open paper, 
which there was not light enough to read, sat Gregory. 
He was looking at her. The light from the open window 
fell on Em’s little face under its white “kapje” as she 
looked in, but no one glanced that way. 

“Go and fetch me a glass of water!” Lyndall said, at 
last. 

Gregory went out to find it; when he put it down at 
her side she merely moved her head in recognition, and 
he went back to his seat and his old occupation. Then 
Em moved slowly away from the window, and through it 
came in spotted, hard-winged insects, to play round the 
lamp, till, one by one, they stuck to its glass, and fell to 
the foot dead. 


THE STOUT OF AH AFMIGAH FARM. 


221 


Ten o’clock struck. Then Lyndall rose^ gathered up 
her papers and letters, and wished Gregory good-night. 
Some time after Em entered; she had been sitting all the 
while on the loft ladder, and had drawn her ‘‘kapje” 
down very much over her face. 

Gregory tvas piecing together the bits of an envelope 
when she came in. 

‘T thought you were never coming,” he said, turning 
round quickly, and throwing the fragments on to the 
floor. “You know I have been shearing all day, and it 
is ten o’clock already.” 

“I’m sorry. I did not think you would be going so 
soon,” she said in a low voice. 

“I can’t hear what you say. What makes you mumble 
so? Well, good-night, Em.” 

He stooped down hastily to kiss her. 

“I want to talk to you, Gregory.” 

“Well, make haste,” he said pettishly. “I’m awfully 
tired. I’ve been sitting here all the evening. Why 
couldn’t you come and talk before?” 

“I will not keep you long,” she answered very steadily 
now. “I think, Gregory, it would be better if you and I 
were never to be married.” 

“Good heaven! Em, what do you mean? I thought 
you were so fond of me? You always professed to be. 
What on earth have you taken into your head now?” 

“I think it would be better,” she said, folding her 
hands over each other, very much as though she were 
praying. 

“Better, Em! What do you mean? Even a woman ^ 
can’t take a freak all about nothing! You must have 
some reason for it, and I’m sure I’ve done nothing to 
offend you. I wrote only to-day to my sister to tell her 
to come up next month to our wedding, and I’ve been as 
affectionate and happy as possible. Come — what’s the 
matter?” 


222 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


He put his arm half-round her shoulder, very loosely* 

‘‘I think it would be better/’ she answered slowly. 

“Oh, well,” he said, drawing himself up, “if you won’t 
enter into explanations you won’t; and I’m not the man 
to beg and pray — not to any woman, and you know that! 
If you don’t want to marry me I can’t oblige you to, of 
course.” 

She stood quite still before him. 

“You women never do know your own minds for two 
days together; and of course you know the state of your 
own feelings best; but it’s very strange. Have you really 
made up your mind, Em?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well, I’m very sorry. I’m sure I’ve not been in 
anything to blame. A man can’t always be billing and 
cooing; but, as you say, if your feeling for me has 
changed, it’s much better you shouldn’t marry me. 
There’s nothing so foolish as to marry some one you 
don’t love; and I only wish for your happiness, I’m sure. 
I dare say you’ll find some one can make you much hap- 
pier than / could; the first person we love is seldom the 
right one. You are very young; it’s quite natural you 
should change.” 

She said nothing. 

“Things often seem hard at the time, but Providence 
makes them turn out for the best in the end,” said 
Gregory. “You’ll let me kiss you, Em, just for old 
friendship’s sake.” He stooped down. “You must look 
upon me as a dear brother, as a cousin at least; as long 
as I am on the farm I shall always be glad to help you, 
Em.” 

Soon after the brown pony was cantering along the 
footpath to the daub-and-wattle house, and his master as 
he rode whistled John Speriwig and the Thorn Kloof 
Schottische. 


THE STORY OF AH AFRICAH FARM. 


233 


The sun h^d not yet touched the outstretched arms of 
the prickly pear upon the ‘‘kopje/’ and the early cocks 
and hens still strutted about stiffly after the night’s roost, 
when Waldo stood before the wagon-house saddling the 
gray mare. Every now and then he glanced up at the 
old familiar objects: they had a new aspect that morning. 
Even the cocks, seen in the light of parting, had a pecul- 
iar interest, and he listened with conscious attention 
while one crowed clear and loud as it stood on the pigsty 
wall. He wished good-morning softly to the Kaffer 
woman who was coming up from the huts to light the 
fire. He was leaving them all to that old life, and from 
his height he looked down on them pityingly. So they 
would keep on crowing, and coming to light fires, when 
for him that old colorless existence was but a dream. 

He went into the house to say good-by to Em, and then 
he walked to the door of Lyndall’s room to wake her; 
but she was up, and standing in the doorway. 

“So you are ready,” she said. 

Waldo looked at her with sudden heaviness; the ex- 
hilaration died out of his heart. Her gray dressing-gown 
hung close about her, and below its edge the little bare 
feet were resting on the threshold. 

“I wonder when we shall meet again, Waldo? What 
you will be, and what I?” 

“Will you write to me?” he asked of her. 

“Yes; and if I should not, you can still remember, 
wherever you are, that you are not alone.” 

“I have left. Doss for you,” he said. 

“Will you not miss him?” 

“No; I want you to have him. He loves you better 
than he loves me.” 

“Thank you.” They stood quiet. 

“Good-by!” she said, putting her little hand in his, 
and he turned away; but when he reached the door she 


224 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


called to him: ‘‘Come back, I want to kiss you.’’ She 
drew his face down to hers, and held it with both hands, 
and kissed it on the forehead and mouth. “Good-by, 
dear!” 

When he looked back the little figure with its beautiful 
eyes was standing in the doorway still. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

THE KOPJE. 

“Good-morking!” 

Em, who was in the storeroom measuring the Kaffers’ 
rations, looked up and saw her former lover standing 
betwixt her and the sunshine. For some days after that 
evening on which he had ridden home whistling he had 
shunned her. She might wish to enter into explanations, 
and he, Gregory Rose, was not the man for that kind of 
thing. If a woman had once thrown him overboard she 
must take the consequences, and stand by them. When, 
however, she showed no inclination to revert to the past, 
and shunned him more than he shunned her, Gregory 
softened. 

“You must let me call you Em still, and be like a 
brother to you till I go,” he said; and Em thanked him 
so humbly that he wished she hadn’t. It wasn’t so easy 
after that to think himself an injured man. 

On that morning he stood some time in the doorway 
switching his whip, and moving rather restlessly from 
one leg to the other. 

“I think I’ll just take a walk up to the camps and see 
how your birds are getting on. Now Waldo’s gone 
you’ve no one to see after things. Nice morning, isn’t 
it?” Then he added suddenly, “I’ll just go round to 
the house and get a drink of water first;” and somewhat 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


225 


awkwardly walked off. He might have found water in 
the kitchen, but he never glanced toward the buckets. 
In the front room a monkey and two tumblers stood on 
the center “table; but he merely looked round, peeped into 
the parlor, looked round again, and then walked out at 
the front door, and found himself again at the storeroom 
without having satisfied his thirst. ‘‘Awfully nice morn- 
ing this,^^ he said, trying to pose himself in a graceful 
and indifferent attitude against the door. “It isn’t hot 
and it isn’t cold. It’s awfully nice.” 

“Yes,” said Em. 

“Your cousin, now,” said Gregory in an aimless sort of 
way — “I suppose she’s shut up in her room writing let- 
ters.” 

“No,” said Em. 

“Gone for a drive, I expect? Nice morning for a 
drive.” 

“No.” 

“Gone to see the ostriches, I suppose?” 

“No.” After a little silence Em added, “I saw her go 
by the kraals to the ‘kopje.’ ” 

Gregory crossed and uncrossed his legs. 

“Well, I think I’ll just go and have a look about,” he 
said, “and see how things are getting on before I go to 
the camps. Good-by; so long.” 

Em left for awhile the bags she was folding and went 
to the window, the same through which, years before, 
Bonaparte had watched the slouching figure cross the 
yard. Gregory walked to the pigsty first, and contem- 
plated the pigs for a few seconds; then turned round, 
and stood looking fixedly at the wall of the fuelhouse as 
though he thought it wanted repairing; then he started 
off suddenly with the evident intention of going to the 
ostrich-camps; then paused, hesitated, and finally walked 
off in the direction of the “kopje.” 


226 


THE STORY OF AH AFRICAH FARM. 


Then Em went back to the corner and folded more 
sacks. 

On the other side of the ^‘kopje’^ Gregory caught sight 
of a white tail waving among the stones, and a succession 
of short, frantic barks told where Doss was engaged in 
howling imploringly to a lizard who had crept between 
two stones, and who had not the slightest intention re- 
sunning himself at that particular moment. 

The dog’s mistress sat higher up, under the shelving 
rock, her face bent over a volume of plays upon her 
knee. As Gregory mounted the stones she started 
violently and looked up; then resumed her book. 

‘T hope I am not troubling you,” said Gregory as he 
reached her side. ‘Tf I am I will go away. I just ” 

“No; you may stay.” 

“I fear I startled you.” 

“Yes; your step was firmer than it generally is. I 
thought it was that of some one else.” 

“Who could it be but me?” asked Gregory, seating 
himself on a stone at her feet. 

“Do you suppose you are the only man who would find 
anything to attract him to this ‘kopje’?” 

“Oh, no,” said Gregory. 

He was not going to argue that point with her, nor 
any other; but no old Boer was likely to take the trouble 
of climbing the “kopje,” and who else was there? 

She continued the study of her book. 

“Miss Lyndall,” he said at last, “I don’t know why it 
is you never talk to me.” 

“We had a long conversation yesterday,” she said, 
without looking up. 

“Yes; but you ask me questions about sheep and oxen. 
I don’t call that talking. You used to talk to Waldo, 
now,” he said, in an aggrieved tone of voice. “I’ve 
heard you when I came in, and then you’ve just left off. 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


227 


You treated me like that from the first day; and you 
couldn’t tell from just looking at me that I couldn’t talk 
about the things you like. I’m sure I know as much 
about such things as Waldo does,” said Gregory, in ex- 
ceeding bitterness of spirit. 

“I do not know which things you refer to. If you will 
enlighten me I am quite prepared to speak of them,” 
she said, reading as she spoke. 

“Oh, you never used to ask Waldo like that,” said 
Gregory, in a more sorely aggrieved tone than ever. 
“You used just to begin.” 

“Well, let me see,” she said, closing her book and 
folding her hands on it. “There at the foot of the 
‘kopje’ goes a Kaffer; he has nothing on but a blanket; 
he is a splendid fellow — six feet high, with a magnificent 
pair of legs. In his leather bag he is going to fetch his 
rations, and I suppose to kick his wife with his beautiful 
legs when he gets home. He has a right to; he bought 
her for two oxen. There is a lean dog going after him, 
to whom I suppose he never gives more than a bone from 
which he has sucked the marrow; but his dog loves him, 
as his wife does. There is something of the master 
about him in spite of his blackness and wool. See how 
he brandishes his stick and holds up his head!” 

“Oh, but aren’t- you making fun?” said Gregory, look- 
ing doubtfully from Her to the Kaffer herd, who rounded 
the “kopje.” 

“No; I am very serious. He is the most interesting 
and intelligent thing I can see just now, except, perhaps, 
Doss. He is profoundly suggestive. Will his race melt 
away in the heat of a collision with a higher ? Are the men 
of the future to see his bones only in museums — a vestige 
of one link that spanned between the dog and the white 
man? He wakes thoughts that run far out into the 
future and back into the past.” 


228 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


Gregory was not quite sure how to take these remarks. 
Being about a Kaffer, they appeared to be of the nature of 
a joke; but, being seriously spoken, they appeared ear- 
nest; so he half laughed and half not, to be on the safe 
side. 

‘‘I’ve often thought so myself. It’s funny we should 
both think the same; I knew we should if once we 
talked. But there are other things — love, now,” he 
added. “I wonder if we would think alike about that. 

I wrote an essay on love once; the master said it was the 
best I ever wrote, and I can remember the first sentence 
still — ‘Love is something that you feel in your heart.’ ” 

“That was a trenchant remark. Can’t you remember 
any more?” 

“No,” said Gregory regretfully; “I’ve forgotten the 
rest. But tell me what do you think about love?” 

A look, half of abstraction, half amusement, played on 
her lips. 

“I don’t know much about love,” she said, “and I do 
not like to talk of things I do not understand; but I 
have heard two opinions. Some say the devil carried the 
seed from hell and planted it on the earth to plague men 
and make them sin; and some say that when all the 
plants in the garden of Eden were pulled up by the roots, 
one bush that the angels planted was left growing, and it 
spread its seed over the whole earth, and its name is love. 
I do not know which is right — perhaps both. There are 
different species that go under the same name. There^it, 
a love that begins in the head, and goes down to the 
heart, and grows slowly; but it lasts till death, and asks 
less than it gives. There is another love, that blots out 
wisdom, that is sweet with the sweetness of life and bitter 
with the bitterness of death, lasting for an hour; but it 
is worth having lived a whole life for that hour. I can- 
not tell, perhaps the old monks were right when they 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


229 


tried to root love out; perhaps the poets are right when 
they try to water it. It is a blood- red flower, with 
the color of sin; but there is always the scent of a god 
about it.” 

Gregory would have made a remark; but she said, 
without noticing: 

‘^There are as many kinds of loves as there are flowers; 
everlastings that never wither; speedwells that wait for 
the wind to fan them out of life; blood-red mountain- 
lilies that pour their voluptuous sweetness out for one 
day, and lie in the dust at night. There is no flower has 
the charm of all — the speedwell’s purity, the everlasting’s 
strength, the mountain-lily’s warmth; but who knows 
whether there is no love that holds all — friendship, pas- 
sion, worship? 

‘‘Such a love,” she said, in her sweetest voice, “will 
fall on the surface of strong, cold, selfish life as the sun- 
light falls on a torpid winter world; there, where the 
trees are bare, and the ground frozen, till it rings to the 
step like iron, and the water is solid, and the air is sharp 
as a two-edged knife that cuts the unwary. 

“But when its sun shines on it, through its whole dead 
crust a throbbing yearnng wakes: the trees feel him, and 
every knot and bud swell, aching to open to him. The 
brown seeds, who have slept deep under the ground, feel 
him, and he gives them strength, till they break through 
the frozen earth, and lift two tiny, trembling green hands 
in love to him. And he touches the water, till down to 
its depths it feels him and melts, and it flows, and the 
things, strange sweet things that were locked up in it, it 
sings as it runs, for love of him. Each plant tries to 
bear at least one fragrant little flower for him; and the 
world that was dead lives and the heart that was dead and 
self-centered throbs, with an upward, outward yearning, 
and it has become that which it seemed impossible ever 


230 


THE STOUT OF AN AFBIGAN FARM. 


to become. There, does that satisfy you?’’ she asked, 
looking down at Gregory. ‘Ts that how you like me to 
talk?” 

“Oh, yes,” said Gregory, “that is what I have already 
thought. We have the same thoughts about everything. 
How strange!” 

“Very,” said Lyndall, working with her little toe at 
a stone in the ground before her. 

Gregory felt he must sustain the conversation. The 
only thing he could think of was to recite a piece of 
poetry. He knew he had learned many about love; but 
the only thing that would come into his mind now was 
the ^^Battle of Hohenlinden^’ and a drum was 

heard” neither of which seemed to bear directly on the 
subject on hand. 

But unexpected relief came to him from Doss, who, 
too deeply lost in contemplation of his crevice, was sur- 
prised by the sudden descent of the stone Lyndall’s foot 
had loosened, which, rolling against his little front paw, 
carried away a piece of white skin. Doss stood on three 
legs, holding up the paw with an expression of extreme 
self-commiseration; he then proceeded to hop slowly up- 
ward in search of sympathy. 

“You have hurt that dog,” said Gregory. 

“Have I?” she replied indifferently, and re-opened 
the book, as though to resume her study of the play. 

“He’s a nasty, snappish little cur!” said Gregory, cal- 
culating from her manner that the remark would be 
indorsed. “He snapped at my horse’s tail yesterday, 
and nearly made it throw me. I wonder his master 
didn’t take him, instead of leaving him here to be a 
nuisance to all of us!” 

Lyndall seemed absorbed in her play; but he ventured 
another remark. 

“Do you think now. Miss Lyndall, that he’ll ever have 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


231 


anything in the world — that German, I mean — money 
enough to support a wife on, and all that sort of thing? 
I don’t. He’s what I call soft.” 

She was spreading her skirt out softly with her left 
hand for the dog to lie down on it. 

“I think I should be rather astonished if he ever be- 
came a respectable member of society,” she said. don’t 

expect to see him the possessor of bank-shares, the chair- 
man of a divisional council, and the father of a large 
family; wearing a black hat, and going to church twice 
on a Sunday. He would rather astonish me if he came 
to such an end.” 

‘‘Yes; I don’t expect anything of him either,” said 
Gregory zealously. 

“Well, I don’t know,” said Lyndall; “there are some 
small things I rather look to him for. If he were to 
invent wings, or carve a statue that one might look at 
for half an hour without wanting to look at something 
else, I should not be surprised. He may do some little 
thing of that kind perhaps, when he has done ferment- 
ing and the sediment has all gone to the bottom.” 

Gregory felt that what she said was not wholly in- 
tended as blame. 

“Well, I don’t know,” he said sulkily; “to me he 
looks like a fool. To walk about always in that dead- 
and-alive sort of way, muttering to himself like an old 
Kaffer witch-doctor! He works hard enough, but it’s 
always as though he didn’t know what he was doing. 
You don’t know how he looks to a person who sees him 
for the first time.” 

Lyndall was softly touching the little sore foot as she 
read, and Doss, to show he liked it, licked her hand. 

“But, Miss Lyndall,” persisted Gregory, “what do 
you really think of him?” 

“I think/’ said Lyndall^ “th£|,t he is like 9, thorn-tree. 


232 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


which grows up very quietly, without any one’s caring 
for it, and one day suddenly breaks out into yellow blos- 
soms.” 

“And what do you think I am like?” asked Gregory, 
hopefully. 

Lyndall looked up from her book. 

“Like a little tin duck floating on a dish of water, that 
comes after a piece of bread stuck on a needle, and the 
more the needle pricks it the more it comes on.” 

“Oh, you are making fun of me now, you really are!” 
said Gregory, feeling wretched. “You are making fun, 
aren’t you, now?” 

“Partly. It is always diverting to make comparisons.” 

“Yes; but you don’t compare me to anything nice, 
and you do other people. What is Em like, now?” 

“The accompaniment of a song. She fills up the gaps 
in other people’s lives, and is always number two; but I 
think she is like many accompaniments — a great deal 
better than the song she is to accompany.” 

“She is not half so good as you are!” said Gregory, 
with a burst of uncontrollable ardor. 

“She is so much better than I, that her little finger 
has more goodness in it than my whole body. I hope 
you may not live to find out the truth of that fact.” 

“You are like an angel,” he said, the blood rushing to 
his head and face. 

“Yes, probably; angels are of many orders.” 

“You are the one being that I love!” said Gregory, 
quivering. “I thought I loved before, but I know now! 
Do not be angry with me. I know you could never like 
me; but if I might but always be near you to serve you, 
I would be utterly, utterly happy. I would ask nothing 
in return! If you could only take everything I have and 
use it; I want nothing but to be of use to you.” 

She looked at him for a few moments. 


THE STORY OF AN AFRIOAN FARM. 


233 


‘‘How do you know/’ she said slowly, “that you could 
not do something to serve me? You could serve me by 
giving me your name.” 

He started, and turned his burning face to her. 

“You are very cruel; you are ridiculing me,” he said. 

“No, I am not, Gregory. What I am saying is plain, 
matter-of-fact business. If you are willing to give me 
your name within three weeks’ time, I am willing to marry 
you; if not, well. I want nothing more than your name. 
That is a clear proposal, is it not?” 

He looked up. Was it contempt, loathing, pity, that 
moved in the eyes above! He could not tell; but he 
stooped over the little foot and kissed it. 

She smiled. 

“Do you really mean it?” he whispered. 

“Yes. You wish to serve me, and to have nothing in 
return! — you shall have what you wish.” She held out 
her fingers for Doss to lick. “Do you see this dog? He 
licks my hand because I love him; and I allow him to. 
Where I do not love I do not allow it. I believe you 
love me; I too could love so, that to lie under the foot 
of the thing I loved would be more heaven than to lie in 
the breast of another. Come! let us go. Carry the 
dog,” she added; “he will not bite you if I put him in 
your arms. So — do not let his foot hang down.” 

They descended the “kopje.” At the bottom, he 
whispered: 

“Would you not take my arm? the path is very rough.’- 

She rested her fingers lightly on it. 

“I may yet change my mind about marrying you be- 
fore the time comes. It is very likely. Mark you!” she 
said, turning round on him; “I remember your words: 
You luill give everything, and expect nMing. The knowl- 
edge that you are serving me is to be your reward; and 
you will have that. You will serve me, and greatly. 


234 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


The reasons I have for marrying you I need not inform 
you of now; you will probably discover some of them 
before long.” 

‘T only want to be of some use to you,” he said. 

It seemed to Gregory that there were pulses in the 
soles of his feet, and the ground shimmered as on a sum- 
mer’s day. They walked round the foot of the ‘‘kopje” 
and past the Kaffer huts. An old Kaffer maid knelt at 
the door of one grinding mealies. That she should see 
him walking so made his heart beat so fast that the 
hand on his arm felt its pulsation. It seemed that she 
must envy him. 

Just then Em looked out again at the back window 
and saw them coming. She cried bitterly all the while 
she sorted the skins. 

But that night when Lyndall had blown her candle 
out, and half turned round to sleep, the door of Em’s 
bedroom opened. 

“I want to say good-night to you, Lyndall,” she said, 
coming to the bedside and kneeling down. 

“I thought you were asleep,” Lyndall replied. 

“Yes, I have been asleep; but I had such a vivid 
dream,” she said, holding the other’s hands, “and that 
awoke me. I never had so vivid a dream before. 

“It seemed I was a little girl again, and I came some- 
where into a large room. On a bed in the corner there 
was something lying dressed in white, and its little eyes 
were shut, and its little face was like wax. I thought it 
was a doll, and I ran forward to take it; but some one 
held up her finger and said: ‘Hush! it is a little dead 
baby.’ And I said: ‘Oh, I must go and call Lyndall, 
that she may look at it also.’ 

“And they put their faces close down to my ear and 
whispered: ‘It is Lyndall’s baby.’ 

“And I said; ‘She cannot be grown up yet; she is only 


THE STOR T OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 235 

a little girl ! Where is she V And I went to look for 
you, but I could not find you. 

“And when I came to some people who were dressed in 
black, I asked them where you were, and they looked 
down at their black clothes, and shook their heads, and 
said nothing; and I could not find you anywhere. And 
then I awoke. 

“Lyndall,^^ she said, putting her face down upon the 
hands she held, “it made me think about that time when 
we were little girls and used to play together, when I 
loved you better than anything else in the world. It 
isn’t any one’s fault that they love you; they can’t help 
it. And it isn’t your fault; you don’t make them love 
you. I know it.” 

“Thank you, dear,” Lyndall said. “It is nice to be 
loved, but it would be better to be good.” 

Then they wished good-night, and Em went back to 
her room. Long after Lyndall lay in the dark thinking, 
thinking, thinking; and as she turned round wearily to 
sleep she muttered: 

“There are some wiser in their sleeping than in their 
waking.” 


CHAPTER IX. 
lykdall’s steanger. 

A EIRE is burning in the unused hearth of the cabin. 
The fuel blazes up, and lights the black rafters, and 
warms the faded red lions on the quilt, and fills the little 
room with a glow of warmth and light made brighter by 
contrast, for outside the night is chill and misty. 

Before the open fireplace sits a stranger, his tall, slight 
figure reposing in the broken armchair, his keen blue 
eyes studying the fire from beneath delicately penciled. 


236 


THE STORY OF AH AFRIGAH FARM. 


drooping eyelids. One white hand plays thoughtfully 
with a heavy flaxen mustache; yet once he starts, and 
for an instant the languid lids raise themselves; there is 
a keen, intent look upon the face as he listens for some- 
thing. Then he leans back in his chair, fills his glass 
from the silver flask in his bag, and resumes his old 
posture. 

Presently the door opens noiselessly. It is Lyndall, 
followed by Doss. Quietly as she enters, he hears her, 
and turns. 

‘T thought you were not coming.’’ 

“I waited till all had gone to bed. I could not come 
before.” 

She removed the shawl that enveloped her, and the 
stranger rose to offer her his chair; but she took her seat 
on a low pile of sacks before the window. 

“I hardly see why I should be outlawed after this 
fashion,” he said, reseating himself and drawing his chair 
a little nearer to her; ‘‘these are hardly the quarters one 
expects to find after traveling a hundred miles in answer 
to an invitation.” 

“I said, ‘Come if you wish.’ ” 

“And I did wish. You give me a cold reception.” 

“I could not take you to the house. Questions would 
be asked which I could not answer without prevarica- 
tion.” 

“Your conscience is growing to have a certain virgin 
tenderness,” he »aid, in a low, melodious voice. 

“I have no conscience. I spoke one deliberate lie this 
evening. I said the man who had come looked rough, 
we had best not have him in the house; therefore I 
brought him here. It was a deliberate lie, and I hate 
lies. I tell them if I must, but they hurt me.” 

“Well, you do not tell lies to yourself, at all events. 
You are candid, so far.” 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


She interrupted him. 

‘‘You got my short letter?’^ 

“Yes; that is why I come. You sent a very foolish 
reply; you must take it back. Who is this fellow you 
talk of marrying?” 

“A young farmer.” 

“Lives here?” 

“Yes; he has gone to town to get things for our wed- 
ding.” 

“What kind of a fellow is he?” « 

“A fool.” 

“And you would rather marry him than me?” 

“Yes; because you are not one.” 

“That is a novel reason for refusing to marry a man,” 
he said, leaning his elbow on the table and watching her 
keenly. 

“It is a wise one,” she said shortly. “If I marry him 
I shall shake him off my hand when it suits me. If I 
remained with him for twelve months he would never have 
dared to kiss my hand. As far as I wish he should come, 
he comes, and no further. Would you ask me what you 
might and what you might not do?” 

Her companion raised the mustache with a caressing 
movement from his lip and smiled. It was not a ques- 
tion that stood in need of any answer. 

“Why do you wish to enter on this semblance of mar- 
riage?” 

“Because there is only one point on which I have a 
conscience. I have told you so.” 

“Then why not marry me?” 

“Because if once you have me you would hold me fast. 
I shall never be free again.” She drew a long low 
breath. 

“What have you done with the ring I gave you?” he 
said. 


238 


THE STORY OF AH AFRICAN FARM. 


‘‘Sometimes I wear it; then I take it off and wish to 
throw it into the fire; the next day I put it on again and 
sometimes I kiss it.’’ 

“So you do love me a little?” 

“If you were not something more to me than any other 
man in the world do you think — ” She paused. “1 
love you when I see you; hut when you are away from 
me I hate you.” 

“Then I fear I must he singularly invisible at the 
present moment,” he said. “Possibly if you were to look 
less fixedly into the fire you might perceive me.” 

He moved his chair slightly so as to come between her 
and the firelight. She raised her eyes to his face. 

“If you do love me,” he asked her,, “why will you not 
marry me?” 

“Because, if I had been married to you for a year, I 
should have come to my senses and seen that your hands 
and your voice are like the hands and the voice of any 
other man. I cannot quite see that now. But it is all 
madness. You call into activity one part of my nature; 
there is a higher part that you know nothing of, that 
you never touch. If I married you, afterward it would 
arise and assert itself, and I should hate you always, as 
I do now sometimes.” 

“Hike you when you grow metaphysical and analyti- 
cal,” he said, leaning his face upon his hand. “Go a 
little further in your analysis; say, ‘I love you with the 
right ventricle of my heart, but not the left, and with 
the left auricle of my heart, but not the right; and, this 
being the case, my affection for you is not of a duly 
elevated, intellectual and spiritual nature.’ I like you 
when you get philosophical.” 

She looked quietly at him; he was trying to turn her 
own weapons against her. 

“You are acting foolishly, Lyndall,” he said, suddenly 


THE STOJiY OF AH AFUICAH FARM. 


239 


changing his manner, and speaking earnestly, “most 
foolishly. You are acting like a little child; I am sur- 
prised at you. It is all very well to have ideals and 
theories; but you know as well as any one can that they 
must not be carried into the practical world. I love 
you. I do not pretend that it is in any high, super- 
human sense; I do not say that I should like you as well 
if you were ugly and deformed, or that I should continue 
to prize you whatever your treatment of me might be, or 
to love you though you were a spirit without any body at 
all. That is sentimentality for beardless boys. Every 
one not a mere child (and you are not a child, except in 
years) knows what love between a man and a woman 
means. I love you with that love. I should not have 
believed it possible that I could have brought myself 
twice to ask of any woman to be my wife, more especially 
one without wealth, without position, and who-^ — 

“Yes — go on. Do not grow sorry for me. Say what 
you were going to — ‘who has put herself into my power, 
and who has lost the right of meeting me on equal 
terms.’ Say what you think. At least we two may 
speak the truth to one another.” 

Then she added after a pause: 

“I believe you do love me, as much as you possibly 
could love anything; and I believe that when you ask me 
to marry you you are performing the most generous act 
you ever have performed in the course of your life, or 
ever will; but, at the same time, if I had required your 
generosity, it would not have been shown me. If, when 
I got your letter a month ago, hinting at your willing- 
ness to marry me, I had at once written, imploring you 
to come, you would have read the letter. ‘Poor little 
devil!’ you would have said, and tore it up. The next 
week you would have sailed for Europe, and have sent 
me a check for a hundred and fifty pounds (which I 


240 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


would have thrown in the fire), and 1 would have heard 
no more of you.’’ 

The stranger smiled. 

“But because I declined your proposal, and wrote that 
in three weeks I should be married to another, then 
what you call love woke up. Your man’s love is a child’s 
love for butterflies. You follow till you have the thing, 
and break it. If you have broken one wing, and the 
thing flies still, then you love it more than ever, and fol- 
low till you break both; then you are satisfied when it 
lies still on the ground.” 

“You are profoundly wise in the ways of the world; 
you have seen far into life,” he said. 

He might as well have sneered at the firelight. 

“I have seen enough to tell me that you love me be- 
cause you cannot hear to be resisted, and want to master 
me. You liked me at first because I treated you and all 
men with indifference. You resolved to have me be- 
cause I seemed unattainable. This is all your love 
means.” 

He felt a strong inclination to stoop down and kiss the 
little lips that defied him; but he restrained himself. 
He said quietly: “And you loved me ” 

“Because you are strong. You are the first man I 
ever was afraid of. And” — a dreamy look came into her 
face — “because I like to experience, I like to try. You 
don’t understand that.” 

He smiled. 

“Well, since you will not marry me, may I inquire 
what your intentions are, the plan you wrote of? You 
asked me to come and hear it, and I have come.” 

“I said, ‘Come if you wish.’ If you agree to it, well; 
if not, I marry on Monday.” 

“Well?” 

She was still looking beyond him at the fire. 


THE STORY OF AH AFRICAN FARM. 


241 


“I cannot marry you/^ she said slowly, ‘‘because I 
cannot be tied; but if you wish, you may take me away 
with you, and take care of me; then when we do not love 
any more we can say good-by. I will not go down 
country,’’ she added; “I will not go to Europe. You 
must take me to the Transvaal. That is Dut of the 
world. People we meet there we need not see again in 
our future lives.” 

“Oh, my darling,” he said, bending tenderly, and 
holding his hand out to her, “why will you not give 
yourself entirely to me? One day you will desert me and 
go to another.” 

She shook her head without looking at him. 

“No, life is too long. But I will go with you.” 

^^When?” 

^^To-morrow. I have told them that before daylight 
I go to the next farm. I will write from the town and 
tell them the facts. I do not want them to trouble me; 
I want to shake myself free of these old surroundings; I 
want them to lose sight of me. You can understand 
that is necessary for me.” 

He seemed lost in consideration; then he said: 

‘Tt is better to have you on those conditions than not 
at all. If you will have it, let it be so.” 

lie sat looking at her. On her face was the weary 
look that rested there so often now when she sat alone. 
Two months had not passed since they parted; but the 
time had set its mark on her. He looked at her care- 
fully, from the brown, smooth head to the little crossed 
feet on the floor. A worn look had grown over the little 
face, and it made its charm for him stronger. For pain 
and time, which trace deep lines and write a story on a 
human face, have a strangely different effect on one face 
and another. The face that is only fair, even very fair, 
they mar and flaw; but to the face whose beauty is the 


242 


THE 8T0BT OF AN AFBICAN FARM, 


harmony between that which speaks from within and the 
form through which it speaks, power is added by all that 
causes the outer man to bear more deeply the impress of 
the inner. The pretty woman fades with the roses on 
her cheeks, and the girlhood that lasts an hour; the 
beautiful woman finds her fullness of bloom only when a 
past has written itself on her, and her power is then most 
irresistible when it seems going. 

From under their half-closed lids the keen eyes looked 
down at her. Her shoulders were bent; for a moment 
the little figure had forgotten its queenly bearing, and 
drooped wearily; the wide, dark eyes watched the fire 
very softly. 

It certainly was not in her power to resist him, nor 
any strength in her that made his own at that moment 
grow soft as he looked at her. 

He touched one little hand that rested on her knee, 

“Poor little thing!’’ he said; “you are only a child.” 

She did not draw her hand away from his, and looked 
up at him. 

“You are very tired?” 

“Yes.” 

She looked into his eyes as a little child might whom a 
long day’s play had saddened. 

He lifted her gently up, and sat her on his knee. 

“Poor little thing!” he said. 

She turned her face to his shoulder, and buried it 
against his neck; he wound his strong arm about her, 
and held her close to him. When she had sat for a long 
while, he drew with his hand the face down, and held it 
against his arm. He kissed it, and then put it back in 
its old resting-place. 

“Don’t you want to talk to me?” 

“No.” 

“Have you forgotten the night in the avenue?” 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


243 


He could feel that she shook her head. 

“Ho you want to be quiet now?’’ 

“Yes.” 

They sat quite still, excepting that only sometimes he 
raised her fingers softly to his mouth. 

Hoss, who had been asleep in the corner, waking sud- 
denly, planted himself before them, his wiry legs moving 
nervously, his yellow eyes filled with anxiety. He was 
not at all sure that she was not being retained in her 
present position against her will, and was not a little re- 
lieved when she sat up and held out her hand for the 
shawl. 

“I must go,” she said. 

The stranger wrapped the shawl very carefully about 
her. 

“Keep it close around your face, Lyndall; it is very 
damp outside. Shall I walk with you to the house?” 

“Ko. Lie down and rest; 1 will come and wake you 
at three o’clock.” 

She lifted her face that he might kiss it, and, when 
he had kissed it once, she still held it that he might kiss 
it again. Then he let her out. He had seated himself 
at the fireplace, when she reopened the door. 

“Have you forgotten anything?” 

“No.” 

She gave one long, lingering look at the old room. 
When she was gone, and the door shut, the stranger 
filled his glass, and sat at the table sipping it thought- 
fully. 

The night outside was misty and damp; the faint 
moonlight, trying to force its* way through the thick air, 
made darkly visible the outlines of the buildings. The 
stones and walls were moist, and now and then a drop, 
slowly collecting, fell from the eaves to the ground. 
Doss^ not liking the change from the cabin’s warmth, 


244 


TEE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


ran quickly to the kitchen doorstep; but his mistress 
walked slowly past him, and took her way up the wind- 
ing foot-path that ran beside the stone wall of the camps. 
When she came to the end of the last camp, she threaded 
her way among the stones and hushes till she reached 
the German’s grave. Why she had come there she 
hardly knew; she stood looking down. Suddenly she 
bent and put one hand on the face of a wet stone. 

‘G shall never come to you again,” she said. 

Then she knelt on the ground, and leaned her face 
upon the stones. 

“Dear old man, good old man, I am so tired!” she 
said (for we will come to the dead to tell secrets we 
would never have told to the living). “I am so tired. 
There is light, there is warmth,” she wailed; “why am 
I alone, so hard, so cold? I am so weary of myself! It 
is eating my soul to its core — self, self, self! I cannot 
bear this life! I cannot breathe, I cannot live! Will 
nothing free me from myself?” She pressed her cheek 
against the wooden post. “I want to love! I want 
something great and pure to lift me to itself! Dear old 
man, I cannot bear it any more! I am so cold, so hard, 
so hard; will no one help me?” 

The water gathered slowly on her shawl, and fell on to 
the wet stones; but she lay there crying bitterly. For 
so the living soul will cry to the dead, and the creature 
to its God; and of all this crying there comes nothing. 
The lifting up of the hands brings no salvation; redemp- 
tion is from within, and neither from God nor man; it is 
wrought out by the soul itself, with suffering and through 
time. 

Doss, on the kitchen doorstep, shivered, and won- 
dered where his mistress stayed so long; and once, sitting 
sadly there in the damp, he had dropped asleep, and 
dreamed that old Otto gave him a piece of breads and 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


245 


patted him on the head, and when he woke his teeth 
chattered, and he moved to another stone to see if it was 
drier. At last he heard his mistress’ step, and they went 
into the house together. She lit a candle, and walked 
to the Boer-woman’s bedroom. On a nail under the lady 
in pink hung the key of the wardrobe. She took it down 
and opened the great press. From a little drawer she took 
fifty pounds (all she had in the world), relocked the door, 
and turned to hang up the key. The marks of tears 
were still on her face, hut she smiled. Then she paused, 
hesitated. 

‘‘Fifty pounds for a lover! A noble reward!” she said, 
and opened the wardrobe and returned the notes to the 
drawer, where Em might find them. 

Once in her own room, she arranged the few articles 
she intended to take to-morrow, burned her old letters, 
and then went back to the front room to look at the 
time. There were two hours yet before she must call 
him. She sat down at the dressing-table to wait, and 
leaned her elbows on it, and buried her face in her hands. 
The glass refiected the little brown head with its even 
parting, and the tiny hands on which it rested. “One 
day I will love something utterly, and then I will be 
better,” she said once. Presently she looked up. The 
large, dark eyes from the glass looked back at her. She 
looked deep into them. 

“We are all alone, you and I,” she whispered; “no 
one helps us, no one understands us; but we will help 
ourselves.” The eyes looked back at her. There was a 
world of assurance in their still depths. So they had 
looked at her ever since she could remember, when it 
was but a small child’s face above a blue pinafore. “We 
shall never be quite alone, you and I,” she said; “we 
shall always be together, as we were when we were little.” 

The beautiful eyes looked into the depths of her souL 


246 the STOB Y OF AH AFRICAN FARM. 

are not afraid; we will help ourselves!’^ she said. 
She stretched out her hand and pressed it over them on 
the glass. ‘‘Dear eyes! we will never be quite alone till 
they part us — till then!’' 


CHAPTER X. 

GREGORY ROSE HAS AH IDEA. 

Gregory Rose was in the loft putting it neat. Out- 
side the rain poured; a six months’ drought had broken, 
and the thirsty plain was drenched with water. What it 
could not swallow ran off in mad rivulets to the great 
“sloot,” that now foamed like an angry river across the 
flat. Even the little furrow between the farmhouse and 
the kraals was now a stream, knee-deep, which almost 
bore away the Kaffer women which crossed it. It had 
rained for twenty-four hours, and still the rain poured 
on. The fowls had collected — a melancholy crowd — in 
and about the wagon-house, and the solitary gander, who 
alone had survived the six months’ want of water, walked 
hither and thither, printing his webbed foot-marks on 
the mud, to have them washed out the next instant by 
the pelting rain, which at eleven o’clock still beat on the 
walls and roofs with unabated ardor. 

Gregory, as he worked in the loft, took no notice of it 
beyond stuffing a sack into the broken pane to keep it 
out; and, in spite of the pelt and patter, Em’s clear voice 
might be heard through the open trapdoor from the 
dining-room, where she sat at work, singing the “Blue 
Water:” 

“ And take me away, 

And take me away, 

And take me away, 

To the Blue Water.” 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


247 


that quaint, childish song of the people, that has a world 
of sweetness, and sad, vague yearning when sung over 
and over dreamily by a woman’s voice as she sits alone at 
her work. 

But Gregory heard neither that nor yet the loud 
laughter of the Kaffer maids, that every now and again 
broke through from the kitchen, where they joked and 
worked. Of late Gregory had grown strangely imper- 
vious to the sounds and sights about him. His lease had 
run out, but Em had said, “Ho not renew it; I need one 
to help me; just stay on.” And she had added, “You must 
not remain in your own little house; live with me; you 
can look after my ostriches better so.” 

And Gregory did not thank her. What difference did 
it make to him, paying rent or not, living there or not; 
it was all one. But yet he came. Em wished that he 
would still sometimes talk of the strength of the master- 
right of man; but Gregory was as one smitten on the 
cheek bone. 

She might do what she pleased, he would find no fault, 
had no word to say. He had forgotten that it is man’s right 
to rule. On that rainy morning he had lighted his pipe 
at the kitchen fire, and when breakfast was over stood in 
the front door watching the water rush down the road 
till the pipe died out in his mouth. Em saw she must 
do something for him, and found him a large calico 
duster. He had sometimes talked of putting the loft 
neat, and to-day she could find nothing else for him to 
do. So she had the ladder put to the trapdoor that he 
need not go out in the wet, and Gregory with the broom 
and duster mounted to the loft. Once at work he worked 
hard. He dusted down the very rafters, and cleaned the 
broken candle-molds and bent forks that had stuck in 
the thatch for twenty years. He placed the black bottles 
neatly in rows on an old box in the corner, and piled the 


248 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


skins on one another, and sorted the rubbish in all the 
boxes; and at eleven o’clock his work was almost done. 
He seated himself on the packing-case which had once 
held Waldo’s books, and proceeded to examine the con- 
tents of another which he had not yet looked at. It was 
carelessly nailed down. He loosened one plank, and 
began to lift out various articles of female attire — old- 
fashioned caps, aprons, dresses with long pointed bodies 
such as he remembered to have seen his mother wear 
when he was a little child. 

He shook them out carefully to see there were no 
moths, and then sat down to fold them up again one by 
one. They had belonged to Em’s mother, and the box, 
as packed at her death, had stood untouched and for- 
gotten these long years. She must have been a tall 
woman, that mother of Em’s, for when he stood up to 
shake out a dress the neck was on a level with his, and 
the skirt touched the ground. Gregory laid a nightcap 
out on his knee, and began rolling up the strings; but 
presently his fingers moved slower and slower, then his 
chin rested on his breast, and finally the imploring blue 
eyes were fixed on the frill abstractedly. When Em’s 
voice called to him from the foot of the ladder he started, 
and threw the nightcap behind him. 

She was only come to tell him that his cup of soup 
was ready; and, when he could hear that she was gone, 
he picked up the nightcap again, and a great brown 
sunkapje— just such a ‘‘kapje” and such a dress as one 
of those he remembered to have seen a sister of mercy 
wear. Gregory’s mind was very full of thought. He 
took down a fragment of an old looking-glass from be- 
hind a beam, and put the ‘‘kapje” on. His beard looked 
somewhat grotesque under it; he put up his hand to hide 
it— that was better. The blue eyes looked out with the 
mild gentleness that became eyes looking out from under 


TEE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM, 


249 


a ^‘kapje.’’ Next he took the brown dress, and, looking 
round furtively, slipped it over his head. He had just 
got his arms in the sleeves, and was trying to hook up 
the back, when an increase in the patter of the rain at 
the window made him drag it off hastily. When he per- 
ceived there was no one coming he tumbled the things 
back into the box, and, covering it carefully, went down 
the ladder. 

Em was still at her work, trying to adjust a new needle 
in the machine. Gregory drank his soup, and then sat 
before her, an awful and mysterious look in his eyes. 

‘‘I am going to town to-morrow,^’ he said. 

‘H’m almost afraid you won’t be able to go,” said Em, 
who was intent on her needle; ‘H don’t think it is going 
to leave off to-day.” 

‘‘I am going,” said Gregory. 

Em looked up. 

‘‘But the ‘sloots’ are as full as rivers; you cannot go. 
We can wait for the post,” she said. 

“I am not going for the post,” said Gregory impress- 
ively. 

Em looked for explanation; none came. 

“When will you be back?” 

“I am not coming back.” 

“Are you going to your friends?” 

Gregory waited, then caught her by the wrist. 

“Look here, Em,” he said between his teeth, “I can’t 
stand it any more. I am going to her.” 

Since that day, when he had come home and found 
Lyndall gone, he had never talked of her; but Em knew 
who it was who needed to be spoken of by no name. 

She said, when he had released her hand: 

“But you do not know where she is?” 

“Yes, I do. She was in Bloemfontein when I heard 
last. I will go there, and I will find out where she went 
then, and then, and then! I will have her.” 


250 


THE STOUT OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


Em turned the wheel quickly, and the ill-adjusted 
needle sprung into twenty fragments. 

“Gregory/^ she said, ‘‘she does not want us; she told 
us so clearly in the letter she wrote.’’ A flush rose on 
Uer face as she spoke. “It will only be pain to you, 
Gregory. Will she like to have you near her?” 

There was an answer he might have made, but it was 
his secret, and he did not choose to share it. He said 
only: 

“I am going.” 

“Will you be gone long, Gregory?” 

“I do not know; perhaps I shall never come back. Do 
what you please with my things. I cannot stay here.’* 

He rose from his seat. 

“People say, forget, forget!” he cried, pacing the 
room. “They are mad! they are fools! Do they say so 
to men who are dying of thirst — forget, forget? Why is 
it only to us they say so! It is a lie to say that time 
makes it easy; it is afterward, afterward that it eats in 
at your heart! 

“All these months,” he cried bitterly, “I have lived 
here quietly, day after day, as if I cared for what I ate, 
and what I drank, and what I did! I care for nothing! 
I cannot bear it! I will not! Forget! forget!” ejacu- 
lated Gregory. “You can forget all the world, but you 
cannot forget yourself. When one thing is more to you 
than yourself, how are you to forget it? 

“I read,” he said — “yes; and then I come to a word 
she used, and it is all back with me again! I go to count 
my sheep, and I see her face before me, and I stand and 
let the sheep run by. I look at you, and in your smile, 
a something at the corner of your lips, I see her. How 
can I forget her when, wherever I turn, she is there, and 
not there? I cannot, I will not, live where I do not see 
her. 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


S51 


‘‘I know what you think/^ he said, turning upon her. 
“You think I am mad; you think I am going to see 
whether she will not like me! I am not so foolish. 1 
should have known at first she never could suffer me. 
Who am I, what am, I that she should look at me? It 
was right that she left me; right that she should not 
look at me. If any one says it is not, it is a lie! I am 
not going to speak to her,^’ he added — “only to see her; 
only to stand sometimes in a place where she has stood 
before. 


CHAPTER XL 

AK UNFIKISHED LETTER. 

Gregory Rose had been gone seven months. Em 
sat alone on a white sheepskin before the fire. 

The August|night-wind, weird and shrill, howled round 
the chimneys and through the crannies, and in walls and 
doors, and uttered a long low cry as it forced its way 
among the clefts of the stones on the “kopje. It was 
a wild night. The prickly-pear tree, stiff and upright as 
it held its arms, felt the wind’s might, and knocked its 
flat leaves heavily together, till great branches broke off. 
The Kaffers, as they slept in their straw huts, whispered 
one to another that before morning there would not bo 
an armful of thatch left on the roofs; and the beams of 
the wagon-house creaked and groaned as if it were heavy 
work to resist the importunity of the wind. 

Em had not gone to bed. Who could sleep on a night 
like this? So in the dining-room she had lighted a fire, 
and sat on the ground before it, turning the roaster-cakes 
that lay on the coals to bake. It would save work in 
the morning; and she blew out the light because the 
wind through the window-chinks made it flicker and run; 


252 


THE STOUT OP AH APUICAH FARM. 


and she sat singing to herself as she watched the cakes. 
They lay at one end of the wide hearth on a bed of coals, 
and at the other end a fire burned up steadily, casting its 
amber glow over Em’s light hair and black dress, with 
the Tuffle of crape about the neck, and over the white 
curls of the sheepskin on which she sat. 

Louder and more fiercely yet howled the storm; but 
Em sang on, and heard nothing but the words of her song, 
and heard them only faintly, as something restful. It was 
an old childish song she had often heard her mother sing 
long ago: 

Where the reeds dance by the river, 

Where the willow’s song is said. 

On the face of the morning water, 

Is reflected a white flower’s head. 

She folded her hands and sang the next verse dreamilly: 

Where the reeds shake by the river, 

Where the moonlight’s sheen is shed, 

On the face of the sleeping water, 

Two leaves of a white flower float dead. 

Dead, Dead, Dead I 

STie echoed the refrain softly till it died away, and then 
repeated it. It was as if, unknown to herself, it har- 
monized with the pictures and thoughts that sat with 
her there alone in the firelight. She turned the cakes 
over, while the wind hurled down a row of bricks from 
the gable, and made the walls tremble. 

Presently she paused and listened; there was a sound 
as of something knocking at the back-doorway. But 
the wind had raised its level higher, and she went on 
with her work. At last the sound was repeated. Then 
she rose, lit the candle at the fire, and went to see. 
Only to satisfy herself, she said, that nothing could be 
out on such a night. 

She opened the door a little way, and held the light be- 


THE 8T0R7 OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


253 


hind her to defend it from the wind. The figure of a tall 
man stood there, and before she could speak he had 
pushed his way in, and was forcing the door to close be- 
hind him. 

“Waldo!’’ she cried in astonishment. 

He had been gone more than a year and a half. 

“You did not expect to see me,” he answered, as he 
turned toward her; “1 should have slept in the outhouse, 
and not troubled you to-night; but through the shutter 
I saw glimmerings of a light.” 

“Come in to the fire,” she said; “it is a terrific night 
for any creature to be out. Shall we not go and fetch 
your things in first?” she added. 

“I have nothing but this,” he said, motioning to the 
little bundle in his hand. 

“Your horse?’*’ 

“Is dead.” 

He sat down on the bench before the fire. 

“The cakes are almost ready,” she said; “I will get 
you something to eat. Where have you been wandering 
all this while?” 

“Up and down, up and down,” he answered wearily; 
“and now the whim has seized me to come back here. 
Em,” he said, putting his hand on her arm as she passed 
him, “have you heard from Lyndall lately?” 

“Yes,” said Em, turning quickly from him. 

“Where is she? I had one letter from her, but that is 
almost a year ago now — just when she left. Where is 
she?” 

“In the Transvaal. I will go and get you some sup- 
per; we can talk afterward.” 

“Can vou give me her exact address? I want to write 
to her.” 

But Em had gone into the next room. 

When food was on the table she knelt down before the 


254 


THE STORY OF AH AFRICAN FARM. 


fire, turning the cakes, babbling restlessly, eagerly, now 
of this, now of that. She was glad to see him — Tant’ 
Sannie was coming soon to show her her new baby — he 
must stay on the farm now, and help her. And Waldo 
himself was well content to eat his meal in silence, ask- 
ing no more questions. 

‘‘Gregory is coming back next week,^^ she said; “he 
will have been gone just a hundred and three days to- 
morrow. I had a letter from him yesterday.’’ 

“Where has he been?” 

But his companion stooped to lift a cake from the fire. 

“How the wind blows! One can hardly hear one’s 
own voice,” she said. “Take this warm cake; no one’s 
cakes are like mine. Why, you have eaten nothing!” 

“I am a little weary,” he said; “the wind was mad to- 
night.” 

He folded his arms, and rested his head against the 
fireplace, while she removed the dishes from the table. 
On the mantelpiece stood an ink-pot and some sheets of 
paper. Presently he took them down and turned up the 
corner of the tablecloth. 

“I will write a few lines,” he said; “till you are ready 
to sit down and talk.” 

Em, as she shook out the tablecloth, watched him 
bending intently over his paper. He had changed much. 
His face had grown thinner; his cheeks were almost hol- 
low, though they were covered by a dark growth of beard. 

She sat down on the skin beside him, and felt the little 
bundle on the bench; it was painfully small and soft. 
Perhaps it held a shirt and a book, but nothing more. 
The old black hat had a piece of unhemmed muslin 
twisted round it, and on his elbow was a large patch so 
fixed on with yellow thread that her heart ached. Only 
his hair was not changed, and hung in silky beautiful 
waves almost to his shoulders. 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


255 


To-morrow she would take the ragged edge off his 
collar, and put a new band round his hat. She did not 
interrupt him, hut she wondered how it was that he sat 
to write so intently after his long weary walk. ■ He was 
not tired now; his pen hurried quickly and restlessly 
over the paper, and his eye was bright. Presently Em 
raised her hand to her breast, where lay the letter yester- 
day had brought her. Soon she had forgotten him as 
entirely as he had forgotten her; each was in his own 
world with his own. He was writing to Lyndall. He 
would tell her all he had seen, all he had done, though it 
were nothing worth relating. He seemed to have come 
back to her, and to be talking to her now he sat there in 
the old house. 

“ and then I got to the next town, and my horse 

was tired, so I could go no further, and looked for 
work. A shopkeeper agreed to hire me as salesman. He 
made me sign a promise to remain six months, and he 
gave me a little empty room at the back of the store to 
sleep in. I had still three pounds of my own, and when 
you just come from the country three pounds seems a 
great deal. 

‘‘When I had been in the shop three days I wanted to 
go away again. A clerk in a shop has the lowest work to 
do of all the people. It is much better to break stones; 
you have the blue sky above you, and only the stones to 
bend to. I asked my master to let me go, and I offered 
to give him my two pounds, and the bag of mealies I 
had bought with the other pound; but he would not. 

“I found out afterward he was only giving me half as 
much as he gave to the others — that was why. I had 
fear when I looked at the other clerks that T would at 
last become like them. All day they were bowing and 
smirking to the women who came in; smiling, when all 
they wanted was to get their money from them. They 


256 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


used to run and fetch the dresses and ribbons to show 
them, and they seemed to me like worms with oil on. 
There was one respectable thing in that store — it was 
the Kaffer storeman. His work was to load and unload, 
and he never needed to smile except when he liked, and 
he never told lies. 

‘‘The other clerks gave me the name of Old Salvation; 
hut there was one person I liked very much. He was 
clerk in another store. He often went past the door. 
He seemed to me not like others — his face was bright 
and fresh like a little child’s. When he came to the 
shop I felt I liked him. One day I saw a book in his 
pocket, and that made me feel near him. 1 asked him 
if he was fond of reading, and he said yes, when there 
was nothing else to do. The next day he came to me, 
and asked me if I did not feel lonely; he never saw me 
going out with the other fellows; he would come and see 
me that evening, he said. 

“I was glad, and bought some meat and flour, because 
the gray mare and I always ate mealies; it is the cheapest 
thing; when you boil it hard you can’t eat much of it. 
I made some cakes, and I folded my greatcoat on the 
box to make it softer for him; and at last he came. 

“ ‘You’ve got a rummy place here,’ he said. 

“You see there was nothing in it but packing-cases for 
furniture, and it was rather empty. While I was put- 
ting the food on the box he looked at my books; he read 
their names out aloud. ‘Elementary Physiology,’ ‘First 
Principles.’ 

“ ‘Golly!’ he said, ‘I’ve got a lot of dry stuff like that 
at home I got for Sunday school prizes; but I only keep 
them to light my pipe with now ; they come in handy for 
that.’ Then he asked me if I had ever read a book 
called the ‘Black-eyed Creole.’ ‘That is the style for 
me,’ he said; ‘there where the fellow takes the nigger- 


TUE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


357 


girl by the arm, and the other fellow cuts off! That’s 
what I like.’ 

“But what he said after that I don’t remember, only it 
made me feel as if I were having a bad dream, and I 
wanted to be far away. 

“When he had finished eating he did not stay long; he 
had to go and see some girls home from a prayer-meet- 
ing; and he asked how it was he never saw me walking 
out with any on Sunday afternoons. He said he had lots 
of sweethearts, and he was going to see one the next 
Wednesday on a farm, and he asked me to lend my mare. 
I told him she was very old. But he said it didn’t mat- 
ter; he would come the next day to fetch her. 

“After he was gone my little room got back to its old 
look. I loved it so; I was so glad to get into it at night, 
and it seemed to be reproaching me for bringing him 
there. The next day he took the gray mare. On Thurs- 
day he did not bring her back, and on Friday I found the 
saddle and bridle standing at my door. 

“In the afternoon he looked into the shop, and called 
out: ‘Hope you got your saddle, Farber? Your bag-of- 
bones kicked out six miles from this. I’ll send you a 
couple of shillings to-morrow, though the old hide wasn’t 
worth it. Good-morning.’ 

“But I sprang over the counter, and got him by his 
throat. My father was so gentle with her; he never 
would ride her uphill, and now this fellow had murdered 
her! I asked him where he had killed her, and I shook 
him till he slipped out of my hand. He stood in the 
door grinning. 

“ ‘It didn’t take much to kill that bag-of-bones, whose 
master sleeps in a packing-case, and waits till his com- 
pany’s finished to eat on the plate. Shouldn’t wonder if 
you fed her on sugar-bags,’ he said; ‘and if you think 
I’ve jumped her, you’d better go and look yourself. 


258 


THE STORY OF AH AFRICAN FARM, 


You’ll find her along the road by the “aas-vogels’^ that 
are eating her.’ 

‘‘I caught him by his collar, and I lifted him from the 
ground, and I threw him out into the street, halfway 
across it. I heard the bookkeeper say to the clerk that 
there was always the devil in those mum fellows; but 
they never called me Salvation after that. 

“I am writing to you of very small things, but there 
is nothing else to tell; it has been all small and you will 
like it. Whenever anything has happened I have always 
though I would tell it to you. The back thought in my 
mind is always you. After that only one old man came 
to visit me. I had seen him in the streets often; he al- 
ways wore very dirty black clothes, and a hat with crape 
round it, and he had one eye, so I noticed him. One 
day he came to my room with a subscription-list for a 
minister’s salary. When I said I had nothing to give he 
looked at me with his one eye. 

‘Young man,’ he said, ‘how is it I never see you in 
the house of the Lord?’ I thought he was trying to do 
good, so I felt sorry for him, and I told him I never went 
to chapel. ‘Young man,’ he said, ‘it grieves me to hear 
such godless words from the lips of one so young — so far 
gone in the paths of destruction. Young man, if you 
forget God, God will forget you. There is a seat on the 
right-hand side as you go at the bottom door that you 
may get. If you are given over to the enjoyment and 
frivolities of this world, what will become of your never 
dying soul?’ 

“He would not go till I gave him half a crown for the 
minister’s salary. Afterward I heard he was the man 
who collected the pew rents and got a percentage. I 
didn’t get to know any one else. 

“When my time in that shop was done I hired myself 
to drive one of a transport-rider’s wagons. 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


259 


‘‘That first morning, when I sat in the front and called 
to my oxen, and saw nothing about me but the hills, 
with the blue coming down to them, and the karroo 
bushes, I was drunk; I laughed; my heart was beating 
till it hurt me. I shut my eyes tight, that when I 
opened them I might see there were no shelves about me. 
There must be a beauty in buying and selling, if there is 
beauty in everything; but it is very ugly to me. My life 
as transport-rider would have been the best life in the 
world if I had had only one wagon to drive. My master 
told me he would drive one, I the other, and he would hire 
another person to drive the third. But the first day I 
drove two to help him, and after that he let me drive all 
three. Whenever we came to an hotel he stopped behind 
to get a drink, and when he rode up to the wagons he 
could never stand; the Hottentot and I used to lift him 
up. We always traveled all night, and used to ‘outspan^ 
for five or six hours in the heat of the day to rest. I 
planned that I would lie under a wagon and read for an 
hour or two every day before I went to sleep, and I did 
for the first two or three; but after that I only wanted to 
sleep, like the rest, and I packed my books away. 

“When you have three wagons to look after all night, 
you are sometimes so tired you can hardly stand. At 
first when I walked along driving my wagons in the night 
it was glorious; the stars had never looked so beautiful 
to me; and on the dark nights when we rode through 
the bush there were will-o’-the-wisps dancing on each 
side of the road. I found out that even the damp and 
dark are beautiful. But I soon changed, and saw noth- 
ing but the road and my oxen. I only wished for a 
smooth piece of road, so that I might sit at the front 
and doze. At the places where we ‘outspanned’ there 
were sometimes rare plants and fiowers, the festoons 
hanging from the bush-trees, and nuts and insects, such 


260 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


as we never see here; but after a little while I never 
looked at them — I was too tired. 

‘‘I ate as much as I could, and then lay down on my 
face under the wagon till the boy came to wake me to 
‘inspan/ and then we drove on again all night; so it 
went, so it went. I think sometimes when I walked by 
my oxen I called to them in my sleep, for I know I thought 
of nothing; I was like an animal. My body was strong 
and well to work, but my brain was dead. If you have 
not felt it, Lyndall, you cannot understand it. You may 
work, and work, and work, till you are only a body, not 
a soul. Now, when I see one of those evil-looking men 
that come from Europe — navvies, with the beast-like, 
sunken face, different from any Kaffer’s — I know what 
brought that look into their eyes; and if I have only one 
inch of tobacco I give them half. It is work, grinding, 
mechanical work, that they or their ancestors have done, 
that has made them into beasts. You may work a man’s 
body so that his soul dies. Work is good. I have 
worked at the old farm from the sun’s rising till its set- 
ting, but I have had time to think, and time to feel. 
You may work a man so that all but the animal in him 
is gone; and that grows stronger with physical labor. 

‘‘You may work a man till he is a devil. I know it, 
because I have felt it. You will never understand the 
change that came over me. No one but I will ever 
know how great it was. But I was never miserable; 
when I could keep my oxen from sticking fast, and when 
I could find a place to lie down in, I had all I wanted. 
After I had driven eight months a rainy season came. 
Eor eighteen hours out of the twenty-four we worked in 
the wet. The mud went up to the axles sometimes, and 
we had to dig the wheels out, and we never went far in a 
day. My master swore at me more than ever, but when 
he had done he always offered me his brandy-fiask. 


THE STOR Y OF AH AFRICAN FARM. 


261 


When I first came he had offered it me, and I had always 
refused; but now I drank as my oxen did when I gave 
them water — without thinking. At last I bought brandy 
for myself whenever we passed an hotel. 

‘‘One Sunday we ‘outspanned’ on the banks of a 
swollen river to wait for its going down. It was drizzling 
still, so I lay under the wagon on the mud. There was 
no dry place anywhere; and all the dung was wet, so 
there was no fire to cook food. My little flask was filled 
with brandy, and I drank some and went to sleep. When 
I woke it was drizzling still, so I drank some more. I 
was stiff and cold; and my master, who lay by me, offered 
me his flask, because mine was empty. I drank some, 
and then I thought I would go and see if the river was 
going down. I remember that I walked to the road, and 
it seemed to be going away from me. When I woke up 
I was lying by a little bush on the bank of the river. It 
was afternoon; all the clouds had gone, and the sky was 
deep blue. The Bushman boy was grilling ribs at the 
fire. He looked at me and grinned from ear to ear. 
‘Master was a little nice,’ he said, ‘and lay down in the 
road. Something might ride over master, so I carried 
him there.’ He**grinned at me again. It was as though 
he said, ‘You and I are comrades. I have lain in a road, 
too. I know all about it.’ 

“When I turned my head from him I saw the earth, 
so pure after the rain, so green, so fresh, so blue; and I 
was a drunken carrier, whom his leader had picked up in 
the mud, and laid at the roadside to sleep out his drink. 
I remember my old life, and I remember you. I saw 
how, one day, you would read in the papers: ‘A German 
carrier, named Waldo Farber, was killed through falling 
from his wagon, being instantly crushed under the wheel. 
Deceased was supposed to have been drunk at the time 
of the accident.’ There are those notices in the paper 


262 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


every month. I sat up, and I took the brandy-flask out 
of my pocket, and I flung it as far as I could into the 
dark water. The Hottentot boy ran down to see if he 
could catch it; it had sunk to the bottom. I never drank 
again. But, Lyndall, sin looks much more terrible to 
those who look at it than to those who do it. A convict, 
or a man who drinks, seems something so far off and 
horrible when we see him; but to himself he seems quite 
near to us, and like us. We wonder what kind of a 
creature he is; but he is just we, ourselves. We are 
only the wood, the knife that carves on us is the circum- 
stance. 

‘‘I do not know why I kept on working so hard for 
that master. I think it was as the oxen come every day 
and stand by the yokes; they do not know why. Per- 
haps I would have been with him still; but one day we 
started with loads for the Diamond Fields. The oxen 
were very thin now, and they had been standing about in 
the yoke all day without food, while the wagons were 
being loaded. Not far from the town was a hill. When 
we came to the foot the first wagon stuck fast. I tried 
for a little while to urge the oxen, but I soon saw the 
one ‘span’ could never pull it up. I went to the other 
wagon to loosen that ‘span’ to join them on in front, 
but the transport-rider, who was lying at the back of the 
wagon, jumped out. “ ‘They shall bring it up the hill; 
and if half of them die for it they shall do it alone,’ he 
said. 

“He was not drunk, but in bad temper, for he 
had been drunk the night before. He swore at me, and 
told me to take the whip and help him. We tried for a 
little time, then I told him it was no use, they could 
never do it. He swore louder, and called to the leaders 
to come on with their whips, and together they lashed. 
There was one ox, a black ox, so thin that the ridge of 
his backbone almost cut through his flesh. 


THE STOUT OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


263 


‘It is you, devil, is it, that will not pull?’ the transport- 
rider said. ‘I will show you something.’ He looked 
like a devil. 

“He told the boys to leave off flogging, and he held 
the ox by the horn, and took up a round stone and 
knocked its nose with it till the blood came. When he 
had done they called to the oxen and took up their whips 
again, and the oxen strained with their backs bent, but 
the wagon did not move an inch. 

“ ‘So you won’t, won’t you?’ he said. ‘ ‘I’ll help you.’ 

“He took out his clasp-knife, and ran it into the leg 
of the trembling ox three times, up to the hilt. Then 
he put the knife in his pocket, and they took their whips. 
The oxens’ flanks quivered, and they foamed at the 
mouth. Straining, they moved the wagon a few feet for- 
ward, then stood with bent backs to keep it from sliding 
back. From the black ox’s nostrils foam and blood were 
streaming on to the ground. It turned its head in its 
anguish and looked at me with its great starting eyes. 
It was praying for help in its agony and weakness, and 
they took their whips again. The creature bellowed 
aloud. If there is a God, it was calling to its Maker for 
help. Then a stream of clear blood burst from both 
nostrils; it fell on to the ground, and the wagon slipped 
back. The man walked up to it. 

“ ‘You are going to lie down, devil, are you? We’ll 
see you don’t take it too easy.’ 

“The thing was just dying. He opened his clasp- 
knife and stooped down over it. I do not know what I 
did then. But afterward I know I had him on the 
stones, and I was kneeling on him. The boys dragged 
me off. I wish they had not. I left him standing in the 
sand in the road, shaking himself, and I walked back to 
the town. I took nothing from that accursed wagon, so 
I had only two shillings. But it did not matter. The 


2G4 


THE STOET OF AN AFEICAN FAEM. 


next day I got work at a wholesale store. My work was 
to pack and unpack goods, and to carry boxes, and I had 
to work from six in the morning to six in the evening; so 
I had plenty of time. 

‘‘I hired a little room, and subscribed to a library, so I 
had everything I needed; and in the week of Christmas 
holidays I went to see the sea. I walked all night, 
Lyndall, to escape the heat, and a little after sunrise I 
got to the top of a high hill. Before me was a long, 
low, blue, monotonous mountain. I walked looking at 
it, but I was thinking of the sea I wanted to see. At 
last I wondered what that curious blue thing might be; 
then it struck me it was the sea! I would have turned 
back again, only I was too tired. I wonder if all the 
things we long to see — the churches, the pictures, the 
men in Europe — will disappoint us so! You see I had 
dreamed of it so long. When I^w^as a little boy, minding 
sheep behind the ‘kopje,’ I used to see the waves stretch- 
ing out as far as the eye could reach in the sunlight. 
My sea! Is the ideal always more beautiful than the 
real? 

“I got to the beach that afternoon, and I saw the water 
run up and down on the sand, and I saw the white foam 
breakers; they were pretty, but I thought I would go 
back the next day. It was not my sea. 

“But I began to like it when I sat by it that night in 
the moonlight; and the next day I liked it better; and 
before I left I loved it. It was not like the sky and stars, 
that talk of what has no beginning and no end; but it is 
so human. Of all the things I have ever seen, only the 
sea is like a human being; the sky is not, nor the earth. 
But the sea is always moving, always something deep in 
itself is stirring it. It never rests, it is always wanting, 
wanting, wanting. It hurries on; and then it creeps 
back slowly without having reached, moaning. It is 


THE STORY OF AN, AFRICAN FARM. 


265 


always asking a question, and it never gets the answer. 
I can hear it in the day and in the night; the white foam 
breakers are saying that which I think. I walk alone 
with them when there is no one to see me, and I sing 
with them. I lie down on the sand and watch them with 
my eyes half shut. The sky is better, but it is so high 
above our heads. I love the sea. Sometimes we must 
look down too. After five days I went back to Grahams- 
town. 

‘T had glorious books, and in the night I could sit in 
my little room and read them; but I was lonely. Books 
are not the same things when you are living among peo- 
ple. I cannot tell why, but they are dead. On the 
farm they would have been living beings to me; but here, 
where there were so many people about me, I wanted 
some one to belong to me. I was lonely. I wanted 
something that was fiesh and blood. Once on this farm 
there came a stranger; I did not ask his name, but he sat 
among the karroo and talked with me. Now, wherever 
I have traveled I have looked for him — in hotels, in 
streets, in passenger wagons as they rushed in, through 
the open windows of houses I have looked for him, but I 
have not found him — never heard a voice like his. One 
day I went to the Botanic Gardens. It was a half-holi- 
day, and the band was to play. I stood in the long raised 
avenue and looked down. There were many fiowers, and 
ladies and children were walking about beautifully 
dressed. At last the music began. I had not heard such 
music before. 

“At first it was slow and even, like the everyday, life, 
when we walk through it without thought or feeling; 
then it grew faster, then it paused, hesitated, then it 
was quite still for an instant, and then it burst out. 
Lyndall, they made heaven right when they made it all 
music. It takes you up and carries you away, away, till 


266 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


you have the things you longed for; you are up close to 
them. You have got out into a large, free, open place. 
I could not see anything while it was playing; I stood 
with my head against me ryte; but, when it was done, I 
saw that there were ladies sitting close to me on a wooden 
bench, and the stranger who had talked to me that day 
in the karroo was sitting between them. The ladies 
were very pretty, and their dresses beautiful. I do not 
think they had been listening to the music, for they were 
talking and laughing very softly. I heard all they said, 
and could even smell the rose on the breast of one. I 
was afraid he would see me; so I went to the other side 
of the tree, and soon they got up and began to pace up 
and down in the avenue. 

^‘All the time the music played they chatted, and he 
carried on his arm the scarf of the prettiest lady. I did 
not hear the music; I tried to catch the sound of his 
voice each time he went by. . When I was listening to 
the music I did not know I was badly dressed; now I 
felt so ashamed of myself. I never knew before what a 
low, horrible thing I was, dressed in tancord. That day 
on the farm, when we sat on the ground under the thorn- 
trees, I thought he quite belonged to me; now, I saw he 
was not mine. But he was still as beautiful. His brown 
eyes are more beautiful than any one’s eyes, except yours. 

“At last they turned to go, and I walked after them. 
When they got out of the gate he helped the ladies into 
a phaeton, and stood for a moment with his foot on the 
step talking to them. He had a little cane in his hand, 
and an Italian greyhound ran after him. Just when 
they drove away one of the ladies dropped her whip. 

“ Tick it up, fellow,’ she said; and when I brought it 
her she threw sixpence on the ground. I might have 
gone back to the garden then; but I did not want music; 
I wanted clothes, and to be fashionable and fine. I felt 


TEE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM, 


267 


that my hands were coarse, and that I was vulgar. I 
never tried to see him again. 

“I stayed in my situation four months after that, but I 
was not happy. I had no rest. The people about me 
pressed on me, and made me dissatisfied. I could not 
forget them. Even when I did not see them they pressed 
on me, and made me miserable. I did not love books; I 
wanted people. When I walked home under the shady 
trees in the street I could not be happy, for when I 
passed the houses I heard music, and saw faces between 
the curtains. I did not want any of them, but I wanted 
some one for mine, for me. I could not help it. I 
wanted a finer life. 

‘‘Only one day something made me happy. A nurse 
came to the store with a little girl belonging to one of 
our clerks. While the maid went into the office to give 
a message to its father, the little child stood looking at 
me. Presently she came close to me and peeped up into 
my face. 

“ ‘Nice curls, pretty curls, ^ she said; ‘I like curls. ^ 

“She felt my hair all over, with her little hands. 
When I put out my arm she let me take her and sit her 
on my knee. She kissed me with her soft mouth. We 
were happy till the nurse-girl came and shook her, and 
asked her if she was not ashamed to sit on the knee of 
that strange man. But I do not think my little one 
minded. She laughed at me as she went out. 

“If the world was all children I could like it; but men 
and women draw me so strangely, and then press me away, 
till I am in agony. I was not meant to live among peo- 
ple. Perhaps some day, when I am grown older, I will 
be able to go and live among them and look at them as I 
look at the rocks, and bushes, without letting them dis- 
turb me, and take myself from me; but not now. So I 
grew miserable; a kind of fever seemed to eat me; I could 


268 


THE STOIiT OF AH AFRICAN FARM, 


not rest, or read, or think; so I came back here. I knew 
you were not here, but it seemed as though I should be 
nearer you; and it is you I want — you that the other 
people suggest to me, hut cannot give.’’ 

He had filled all the sheets he had taken, and now 
lifted down the last from the mantelpiece. Em had 
dropped asleep, and lay slumbering peacefully on the 
skin before the fire. Out of doors the storm still raged; 
but in a fitful manner, as though growing half-weary of 
itself. He bent over his paper again, with eager fiushed 
cheek, and wrote on. 

“It has been a delightful journey, this journey home. 
I have walked on foot. The evening before last, when 
it was just sunset, I was a little footsore and thirsty, and 
went out of the road to look for water. I went down 
into a deep little ‘kloof.’ Some trees ran along the bot- 
tom, and I thought I should find water there. The sun 
had quite set when I got to the bottom of it. It was 
very still — not a leaf was stirring anywhere. In the bed 
of the mountain torrent I thought I might find water. I 
came to the bank, and leaped down into the dry bed. The 
fioor on which I stood was of fine white sand, and the 
banks rose on every side like the walls of a room. 

“Above there was a precipice of rocks, and a tiny 
stream of water oozed from them and fell slowly on to 
the fiat stone below. Each drop you could hear fall like 
a little silver bell. There was one among the trees on 
the bank that stood cut out against the white sky. All 
the other trees were silent; but this one shook and trem- 
bled against the sky. Everything else was still; but 
those leaves were quivering, quivering. I stood on the 
sand; I could not go away. When it was quite dark, and 
the stars had come, I crept out. Does it seem strange 
to you that it should have made me so happy? It is be- 
cause I cannot tell you how near I felt to things that we 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


269 


cannot see but we always feel. To-night has been a 
wild, stormy night. I have been walking across the plain 
for hours in the dark. I have liked the wind because I 
have seemed forcing my way through to you. I knew 
you were not here, but I would hear of you. When I 
used to sit on the transport wagon half-sleeping, I used 
to start awake because your hands were on me. In my 
lodgings, many nights I have blown the light out, and sat 
in the dark, that I might see your face start out more 
distinctly. Sometimes it was the little girhs face who 
used to come to me behind the ‘kopje’ when I minded 
sheep, and sit by me in her blue pinafore; sometimes it 
was older. I love both. I am very helpless; I shall 
never do anything; but you will work, and I will take 
your work for mine. Sometimes such a sudden gladness 
seizes me when I remember that somewhere in the world 
you are living and working. You are my very own; 
nothing else is my own so. When I have finished I am 
going to look at your room door ” 

He wrote; and the wind, which had spent its fury, 
moaned round and round the house, most like a tired 
child weary with crying. 

Em woke up, and sat before the fire, rubbing her eyes, 
and listening, as it sobbed about the gables, and wan- 
dered away over the long stone walls. 

“How quiet it has grown now,” she said, and sighed 
herself, partly from weariness and partly from sympathy 
with the tired wind. He did not answer her; he was 
lost in his letter. 

She rose slowly after a time, and rested her hand on 
his shoulder. 

“You have many letters to write,” she said. 

“No,” he answered; “it is only one to Lyndall.” 

She turned away, and stood long before the fire look- 
ing into it. If you have a deadly fruit to give, it will 
not grow sweeter by keeping. 


270 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM, 


‘‘Waldo, dear/’ she said, putting her hand on his, 
“leave off writing.” 

He threw back the dark hair from his forehead and 
looked at her. 

“It is no use writing any more,” she said. 

“Why not?” he asked. 

She put her hand over the papers he had written. 
“Waldo,” she said, “Lyndall is dead.” 


CHAPTER XII. 

GREGORY’S WOMANHOOD. 

Slowly over the flat came a cart. On the back seat 
sat Gregory, his arms folded, his hat drawn over his eyes. 
A Kaffer boy sat on the front seat driving, and at his 
feet sat Doss, who, now and again, lifted his nose and 
eyes above the level of the splashboard, to look at the 
surrounding country; and then, with an exceedingly 
knowing wink of his left eye, turned to his companions, 
thereby intimating that he clearly perceived his where- 
abouts. No one noticed the cart coming. Waldo, who 
was at work at his carpenter’s table in the wagon-house, 
saw nothing, till chancing to look down he perceived 
Doss standing before him, the legs trembling, the little 
nose wrinkled, and a series of short suffocating barks giv- 
ing utterance to his joy at reunion. 

Em, whose eyes had ached with looking out across the 
plain, was now at work in a back room, and knew nothing 
till, looking up, she saw Gregory, with his straw hat and 
blue eyes, standing in the doorway. He greeted her 
quietly, hung his hat up in its old place behind the door, 
and for any change in his manner or appearance he 
might have been gone only the day before to fetch letters 
from the town. Only his beard was gone, and his face 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM, 271 

was grown thinner. He took off his leather gaiters, said 
the afternoon was hot and the roads dusty, and asked for 
some tea. They talked of wool, and the cattle, and the 
sheep, and Em gave him the pile of letters that had come 
for him during the months of absence, but of the thing 
that lay at their hearts neither said anything. Then he 
went out to loo]£ at the kraals, and at supper Em gave 
him hot cakes and coffee. They talked about the serv- 
ants, and then ate their meal in quiet. She asked no 
questions. When it was ended Gregory went into the 
front room, and lay in the dark on the sofa. 

“Do you not want a light Em asked, venturing to 
look in. 

he answered; then presently called to her, 
“Come and sit here; I want to talk to you.^^ 

She came and sat on a footstool near him. 

“Do you wish to hear anything?^’ he asked. 

She whispered: 

“Yes, if it does not hurt you.'’’ 

“What difference does it make to me?” he said. “If 
I talk or am silent, is there any change?” 

Yet he lay quiet for a long time. The light through 
the open door showed him to her, where he lay, with his 
arm thrown across his eyes. At last he spoke. Perhaps 
it was a relief to him to speak. 

To Bloemfontein in the Free State, to which through 
an agent he had traced them, Gregory had gone. At the 
hotel where Lyndall and her stranger had stayed he put 
up; he was shown the very room in which they had slept. 
The colored boy who had driven them to the next town 
told him in which house ‘they had boarded, and Gregory 
went on. In that town he found they had left the cart, 
and bought a spider and four grays, and Gregory’s heart 
rejoiced. Now indeed it would be easy to trace their 
course. And he turned his steps northward. 


2TZ the STOR Y of an AFRICAN FARM. 

At the farmhouses where he stopped the ^‘ooms^^ and 
“tantes” remembered clearly the spider with its four 
gray horses. At one place the Boer-wife told how the 
tall, blue-eyed Englishman had bought milk, and asked 
the way to the next farm. At the next farm the English- 
man had bought a bunch of flowers, and given half a 
crown for them to the little girl. It was quite true; the 
Boer-mother made her get it out of the box and show it. 
At the next place they had slept. Here they told him 
that the great bulldog, who hated all strangers, had 
walked in in the evening and laid its head in the lady’s 
lap. So at every place he heard something, and traced 
them step by step. 

At one desolate farm the Boer had a good deal to tell. 
The lady had said she liked a wagon that stood before 
the door. Without asking the price the Englishman had 
offered a hundred and fifty pounds for the old thing, and 
bought oxen worth ten pounds for sixteen. The Dutch- 
man chuckled, for he had the “Salt-reimV’ money in the 
box under his bed. Gregory laughed too, in silence: he 
could not lose sight of them now, so slowly they would 
have to move with that cumbrous ox-wagon. Yet, when 
that evening came, and he reached a little wayside inn, 
no one could tell him anything of the travelers. 

The master, a surly creature, half-stupid with Boer- 
brandy, sat on the bench before the door smoking. 
Gregory sat beside him, questioning, but he smoked on. 
He remembered nothing of such strangers. How should 
he know who had been there months and months before? 
He smoked on. Gregory, very weary, tried to awake his 
memory, said that the lady he was seeking for was very 
beautiful, had a little mouth, and tiny, very tiny, feet. 
The man only smoked on as sullenly as at first. What 
were little, very little, mouths and feet to him. But his 
daughter leaned out in the window above. She was dirty 


THE STOR Y OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


273 


and lazy, and liked to loll there when travelers came, to 
hear the men talk, hut she had a soft heart. Presently 
a hand came out of the window, and a pair of .velvet 
slippers touched his shoulder, tiny slippers with black 
flowers. He pulled them out of her hand. Only one 
woman's ieet had worn them, he knew that. 

“Left here last summer by a lady," said the girl; 
“might be the one you are looking for. Never saw any 
feet so small." 

Gregory rose and questioned her. 

They might have come in a wagon and spider, she 
could not tell. But the gentleman was very handsome, 
tall, lovely flgure, blue eyes, wore gloves always when he 
went out. An English officer, perhaps; no Africander, 
certainly. 

Gregory stopped her. 

The lady? Well, she was pretty, rather, the girl said; 
very cold, dull air, silent. They stayed for, it might be, 
flve days; slept in the wing over against the “stoep;" 
quarreled sometimes, she thought — the lady. She had 
seen everything when she went in to wait. One day the 
gentleman touched her hair; she drew back from him as 
though his Angers poisoned her. Went to the other end 
of the room if he came to sit near her. Walked out 
alone. Cold wife for such a handsome husband, the girl 
thought; she evidently pitied him, he was such a beauti- 
ful man. They went away early one morning, how, or 
in which way, the girl could not tell. 

Gregory inquired of the servants, but nothing more 
was to be learned; so the next morning he saddled his 
horse and went on. At the farms he came to the good 
old “ooms" and “tantes" asked him to have coffee, and 
the little shoeless children peeped out at the stranger 
from behind ovens and gables; but no one had seen what 
he asked for. This way and that he rode to pick up the 


274 


TEE STOUT OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


thread he had dropped, but the spider and the wagon, 
the little lady and the handsome gentleman, no one had 
seen. In the towns he fared yet worse. 

Once indeed hope came to him. On the ‘^stoep” of an 
hotel at which he stayed the night in a certain little vil- 
lage, there walked a gentleman, grave and kindly-look- 
ing. It was not hard to open conversation with him 
about the weather, and then — Had he ever seen such and 
such people, a gentleman and a lady, a spider and 
wagon, arrive at that place? The kindly gentleman 
shook his head. What was the lady like, he inquired. 

Gregory painted. Hair like silken floss, small mouth, 
under lip very full and pink, upper lip pink but very thin 
and curled; there were four white spots on the nail of 
her right-hand foreflnger, and her eyebrows were very 
delicately curved. 

“Yes; and a rosebud tinge in the cheeks; hands like 
lilies, and perfectly seraphic smile." 

“That is she! that is she!" cried Gregory. 

Who else could it be? He asked where she had gone 
to. The gentleman most thoughtfully stroked his beard. 

He would try to remember. Were not her ears — 
Here such a violent flt of coughing seized him that he 
ran away into the house. An ill-fed clerk and a dirty 
barman standing in the doorway laughed aloud. Gregory 
wondered if they could be laughing at the gentleman’s 
cough, and then he heard some one laughing in the room 
into which the gentleman had gone. He must follow 
him and try to learn more; but he soon found that there 
was nothing more to be learned there. Poor Gregory! 

Backward and forward, backward and forward, from 
the dirty little hotel where he had dropped the thread, to 
this farm and to that, rode Gregory, till his heart was 
sick and tired. That from that spot the wagon might 
have gone its own way and the spider another was an idea 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


275 


that did not occur to him. At last he saw it was no use 
lingering in that neighborhood, and pressed on. 

One day coming to a little town, his horses knocked 
up, and he resolved to rest them there. The little hotel 
of the town was a bright and sunny place, like the jovial 
face of the clean little woman who kept it, and who 
trotted about talking always — talking to the customers 
in the taproom, and to the maids in the kitchen, and to 
the passers-by when she could hail them from the windows; 
talking, as good-natured women with large mouths and 
small noses always do, in season and out. 

There was a little front parlor in the hotel, kept for 
strangers who wanted to be alone. Gregory sat there to 
eat his breakfast, and the landlady dusted the room and 
talked of the great finds at the diamond fields, and the 
badness of maid-servants, and the shameful conduct of 
the Dutch parson in that town to the English inhabit- 
ants. Gregory ate his breakfast and listened to nothing. 
He had asked his one question, and had had his answer; 
now she might talk on. 

Presently a door in the corner opened and a woman 
came out — a Mozambiquer, with a red handkerchief 
twisted round her head. She carrried in her hand a 
tray, with a slice of toast crumbled fine, and a half-filled 
cup of coffee, and an egg broken open, but not eaten. Her 
ebony face grinned complacently as she shut the door 
softly and said, ‘"Good-morning."" 

The landlady began to talk to her. 

‘‘You are not going to leave hej really. Ayah, are 
you?'" she said. “The maids say so; but Pm sure you 
wouldn't do such a thing." 

The M9zambiquer grinned. 

“Husband says I must go home." 

“But she hasn't got any one else, and won't have any 
one else. Gome, now," said the landlady, “I've no time 


270 


THE STORT OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


to be sitting always in a sick room, not if I was paid any- 
thing for it/" 

The Mozambiquer only showed her white teeth good- 
naturedly for answer, and went out, and the landlady 
followed her. 

Gregory, glad to be alone, watched the sunshine as it 
came over the fuchsias in the window, and ran up and 
down on the paneled door in the corner. The Mozam- 
biquer had closed it loosely behind her, and presently 
something touched it inside. It moved a little, then it 
was still, then moved again; then through the gap a 
small nose appeared, and a yellow ear overlapping one 
eye; then the whole head obtruded, placed itself critically 
on one side, wrinkled its nose disapprovingly at Gregory, 
and withdrew. Through the half-open door came a faint 
scent of vinegar, and the room was dark and still. 

Presently the landlady came back. 

‘‘Left the door open,"" she said, bustling to shut it; 
“but a darky will be a darky, and never carries a head on 
its shoulders like other folks. Not ill, I hope, sir?"" she 
said, looking at Gregory when she had shut the bedroom 
door. 

“No,"" said Gregory, “no."" 

The landlady began putting the things together. 

“Who,"" asked Gregory, “is in that room?"" 

Glad to have a little innocent piece of gossip to relate, 
and some one willing to hear it, the landlady made the 
most of a little story as she cleared the table. Six 
months before a lady had come alone to the hotel in a 
wagon, with only a colored leader and driver. Eight 
days after a little baby had been born. 

If Gregory stood up and looked out at the window he 
would see a blue gum-tree in the graveyard; close by it 
was a little grave. The baby was buried there. A tiny 
thing— only lived two hours, and the mother herself al- 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


m 


most went with it. After awhile she was better; but one 
day she got up out of bed, dressed herself without saying 
a word to any one, and went out. It was a drizzly day; 
a little time after some one saw her sitting on the wet 
ground under the blue gum-tree, with the rain dripping 
from her hat and shawl. They went to fetch her, but 
she would not come until she chose. When she did, she 
had gone to bed and had not risen again from it; never 
would, the doctor said. 

She was very patient, poor thing. When you went in 
to ask her how she was she said always ‘‘Better,” or 
“Nearly well!” and lay still in the darkened room, and 
never troubled any one. The Mozambiquer took care of 
her, and she would not allow any one else to touch her; 
would not so much as allow any one else to see her foot 
uncovered. She was strange in many ways, but she paid 
well, poor thing; and now the Mozambiquer was going, 
and she would have to take up with some one else. 

The landlady prattled on pleasantly, and now carried 
away the tray with the breakfast-things. When she was 
gone Gregory leaned his head on his hands, but he did 
not think long. 

Before dinner he had ridden out of the town to where 
on a rise a number of transport-wagons were out- 
spanned. The Dutchman driver of one wondered at the 
stranger^s eagerness to free himself of his horses. Stolen 
perhaps; but it was worth his while to buy them at so 
low a price. So the horses changed masters, and Gregory 
walked off with his saddle-bags slung across his arm. 
Once out of sight of the wagons he struck out of the road 
and walked across the “veld,” the dry, flowering grasses 
waving everywhere about him; halfway across the plain 
he came to a deep gully which the rain torrents had 
washed out, but which was now dry. Gregory sprang 
down into its red bed. It was a safe place, and quiet. 


278 


THE STOR T OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


When he had looked about him he sat down under the 
shade of an overhanging bank and fanned himself with 
his hat, for the afternoon was hot, and he had walked 
fast. At his feet the dusty ants ran about, and the high 
red bank before him was covered by a network of roots 
and fibers washed bare by the rains. Above his head rose 
the clear blue African sky; at his side were the saddle- 
bags full of woman^s clothing. Gregory looked up half- 
plaintively into the blue sky. 

•‘Am I, am I Gregory Nazianzen Rose?^^ he said. 

It was all so strange, he sitting there in that “sloot” in 
that up-country plain! — strange as the fantastic, chang- 
ing shapes in a summer cloud. At last, tired out, he fell 
asleep, with his head against the bank. When he woke 
the shadow had stretched across the “sloot,^^ and the sun 
was on the edge of the plain. Now he must be up and 
doing. He drew from his breast-pocket a little sixpenny 
looking-glass, and hung it on one of the roots that stuck 
out from the bank. Then he dressed himself in one of 
the old-fashioned gowns and a great pinked-out collar. 
Then he took out a razor. Tuft by tuft the soft brown 
beard fell down into the sand, and the little ants took it 
to line their nests with. Then the glass showed a face 
surrounded by a frilled cap, white as a woman's, with a 
little mouth, a very short upper lip, and a receding chin. 

Presently a rather tall woman's figure was making its 
way across the “veld." As it passed a hollowed-out ant- 
heap it knelt down, and stuffed in the saddle-bags with 
the man's clothing, closing up the anthill with bits of 
ground to look as natural as possible. Like a sinner hid- 
ing his deed of sin, the hider started once and looked 
round, but yet there was no one near save a “meerkat," 
who had lifted herself out of her hole and sat on her hind 
legs watching. He did not like that even she should see, 
and when he rose she dived away into her hole. Then 


THE STORY OF AJV AFRICA JY FAJ^M. 


279 


he walked on leisurely, that the dusk might have reached 
the village streets before he walked there. The first 
house was the smithes, and before the open door two idle 
urchins lolled. As he hurried up the street in the 
gathering gloom he heard them laugh long and loudly 
behind him. He glanced round fearingly, and would al- 
most have fled, but that the strange skirts clung about 
his legs. And after all it was only a spark that had 
alighted on the head of one, and not the strange figure 
they laughed at. 

The door of the hotel stood wide open, and the light 
fell out into the street. He knocked, and the landlady 
came. She peered out to look for the cart that had 
brought the traveler; but Gregory's heart was brave now 
he was so near the quiet room. He told her he had come 
with the transport-wagons that stood outside the town. 

He had walked in, and wanted lodgings for the night. 

It was a deliberate lie, glibly told; he would have told 
fifty, though the recording angel had stood in the next 
room with his pen dipped in the ink. What was it to 
him? He remembered that she lay there saying always: 
‘H am better. 

The landlady put his supper in the little parlor where 
he had sat in the morning. When it was on the table she 
sat down in the rocking-chair, as her fashion was, to knit 
and talk, that she might gather news for her customers 
in the taproom. In the white face under the queer, 
deep-fringed cap she saw nothing of the morning^s 
traveler. The newcomer was communicative. She was 
a nurse by profession, she said; had come to the Trans- 
vaal, hearing that good nurses were needed there. She 
had not yet found work. The landlady did not perhaps 
know whether there would be any for her in that town? 

The landlady put down her knitting and smote her fat 
hands together. 


280 


THE STORY OF AH AFRICAN FARM. 


If it wasn’t the very finger of God’s providence, as 
though you saw it hanging out of the sky, she said. 
Here was a lady ill and needing a new nurse that very 
day, and not able to get one to her mind, and now — well, 
if it wasn’t enough to convert all the Atheists and Free- 
thinkers in the Transvaal, she didn’t know! 

Then the landlady proceeded to detail facts. 

‘H’m sure you will suit her,” she added; ‘‘you’re just 
the kind. She has heaps of money to pay you with; has 
everything that money can buy. And I got a letter with 
a check in it for fifty pounds the other day from some 
one, who says I’m to spend it for her, and not to let her 
know. She is asleep now, but I’ll take you in to look at 
her.” 

The landlady opened the door of the next room, and 
Gregory followed her. A table stood near the bed, and a 
lamp burning low stood on it; the bed was a great four- 
poster with white curtains, and the quilt was of rich 
crimson satin. But Gregory stood just inside the door 
with his head bent low, and saw no further. 

“Come nearer! I’ll turn the lamp up a bit, that you 
can have a look at her. A pretty thing, isn’t it?” said 
the landlady. 

Near the foot of the bed was a dent in the crimson 
quilt, and out of it Doss’ small head and bright eyes 
looked knowingly. 

Then Gregory looked up at what lay on the cushion. 
A little white, white face, transparent as an angel’s, with 
a cloth bound round the forehead, and with soft hair 
tossed about on the pillow. 

“We had to cut it off,” said the woman, touching it 
with her forefinger. “Soft as silk, like a wax doll’s.” 

But Gregory’s heart was bleeding. 

“Never get up again, the doctor says,” said the land- 
lady. 


THE STORY OF AW AFRICAN FARM, 


281 


Gregory uttered one word. In an instant the beauti- 
ful eyes opened widely, looked round the room and into 
the dark corners. 

“Who is here? Whom did I hear speak?’’ 

Gregory had sunk back behind the curtain; the land- 
lady drew it aside, and pulled him forward. 

“Only this lady, ma’am — a nurse by profession. She 
is willing to stay and take care of you, if you can come to 
terms with her.” 

Lyndall raised herself on her elbow, and cast one keeu, 
scrutinizing glance over him. 

“Have I never seen you before?” she asked. 

“No.” 

She fell back wearily. 

“Perhaps you would like to arrange the terms between 
yourselves,” said the landlady. “Here is a chair. I will 
be back presently.” 

Gregory sat down, with bent head and quick breath. 
She did not speak, and lay with half-closed eyes, seeming 
to have forgotten him. 

• “Will you turn the lamp down a little ?” she said at 
last; “I cannot bear the light.” 

Then his heart grew braver in the shadow, and he 
spoke. Nursing was to him, he said, his chosen life’s 
work. He wanted no money if — She stopped him. 

“I take no service for which I do not pay,” she said. 
“What I gave to my last nurse I will give to you; if you 
do not like it you may go.” 

And Gregory muttered humbly, he would take it. 

Afterward she tried to turn herself. He lifted her! 
Ah! a shrunken little body, he could feel its weakness as 
he touched it. His hands were to him glorified for what 
they had done. 

“Thank you! that is so nice. Other people hurt me 
when they touch me,” she said. “Thank you!” Then 


2S2 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


after a little while she repeated humbly, “Thank you; 
they hurt me so/’ 

Gregory sat down trembling. His little ewe-lamb, 
could they hurt her? 

The doctor said of Gregory four days after, “She is 
the most experienced nurse I ever came in contact 
with.” 

Gregory, standing in the passage, heard it and laughed 
in his heart. What need had he of experience ? Experience 
teaches us in a millennium what passion teaches us in an 
hour. A Kaffer studies all his life the discerning of dis- 
tant sounds; but he will never hear my step, when my 
love hears it, coming to her window in the dark over the 
short grass. 

At first Gregory’s heart was sore when day by day the 
body grew lighter, and the mouth he fed took less; but 
afterward he grew accustomed to it, and was happy. For 
passion has one cry, one only — “Oh, to touch thee, be- 
loved!” 

In that quiet room Lyndall lay on the bed with the dog 
at her feet, and Gregory sat in his dark corner watching. 

She seldom slept, and through those long, long days 
she would lie watching the round streak of sunlight that 
came through the knot in the shutter, or the massive 
lion’s paw on which the wardrobe rested. What thoughts 
were in those eyes? Gregory wondered; he dared not 
ask. 

Sometimes Doss where he lay on her feet would dream 
that they two were in the cart, tearing over the “veld,” 
with the black horses snorting, and the wind in their 
faces; and he would start up in his sleep and bark aloud. 
Then awaking, he would lick his mistress’ hand almost 
remorsefully, and slink quietly down into his place. 

Gregory thought she had no pain, she never groaned; 
only sometimes, when the light was near her, he thought 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


283 


be could see slight contractions about her lips and eye- 
brows. 

He slept on the sofa outside her door. 

One night he thought he heard a sound, and, opening 
it softly, he looked in. She was crying out aloud, as if 
she and her pain were alone in the world. The light fell 
on the red quilt, and the little hands that were clasped 
over the head. The wide-open eyes were looking up, and 
the heavy drops fell slowly from them. 

‘H cannot bear any more, not any more,^’ she said in a 
deep voice. ‘‘Oh, God, God! have I not borne in silence? 
Have I not endured these long, long months? But now, 
now, oh, God, I cannot!’’ 

Gregory knelt in the doorway listening. 

“I do not ask for wisdom, not human love, not work, 
not knowledge, not for all things I have longed for,” she 
cried; “only a little freedom from pain! only one little 
hour without pain! Then I will suffer again.” 

She sat up, and bit the little hand Gregory loved. 

He crept away to the front door, and stood looking out 
at the quiet starlight. When he came back she was lying 
in her usual posture, the quiet eyes looking at the lion’s 
claw. He came close to the bed. 

“You have much pain to-night?” he asked her. 

“No, not much.” 

“Can I do anything for you?” 

“No, nothing.” 

She still drew her lips together, and motioned with her 
fingers toward the dog who lay sleeping at her feet. 
Gregory lifted him and laid him at her side. She made 
Gregory turn open the bosom of her nightdress, that the 
dog might put his black muzzle between her breasts. 
She crossed her arms over him. Gregory left them lying 
there together. 

Next day, when .they asked her how she was, she an- 
swered “Better.” 


284 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


‘‘Some one ought to tell her/’ said the landlady; “we 
can’t let her soul go out into eternity not knowing, 
especially when I don’t think it was all right about the 
child. You ought to go and tell her, doctor.” 

So, the little doctor, edged on and on, went in at last. 
When he came out of the room he shook his fist in the 
landlady’s face. 

“The next time you have any devil’s work to do, do it 
yourself,” he said, and he shook his fist in her face again, 
and went away swearing. 

When Gregory went into the bedroom he only found 
her moved, her body curled up, and drawn close to the 
wall. He dared not disturb her. At last, after a long 
time, she turned. 

“Bring me food,” she said, “I want to eat. Two eggs, 
and toast, and meat — two large slices of toast, please.” 

Wondering, Gregory brought a tray with all that she 
had asked for. 

“Sit me up, and put it close to me,” she said; “I am 
going to eat it all.” She tried to draw the things near 
her with her fingers, and rearranged the plates. She 
cut the toast into long strips, broke open both eggs, put 
a tiny morsel of bread into her own mouth, and fed the 
dog with pieces of meat put into his jaws with her 
fingers. 

“Is it twelve o’clock yet?” she said; “I think I do not 
generally eat so early. Put it away, please, carefully — 
no, do not take it away — only on the table. When the 
clock strikes twelve I will eat it.” 

She lay down trembling. After a little while she said: 

“Give me my clothes.” 

He looked at her. 

“Yes; I am going to dress to-morrow. I should get 
up now, but it is rather late. Put them on that chair. 
My collars are in the little box, my boots behind the 
door.” 


THE S7VRY OF AH AFRICAN FARM. 


285 


Her eyes followed him intently as he collected the 
articles one by one, and placed them on the chair as she 
directed. 

‘‘Put it nearer/’ she said, “I cannot see it;” and she 
lay watching the clothes, with her hand under her cheek. 

“Now open the shutter wide,” she said; “I am going 
to read.” 

The old, old tone was again in the sweet voice. He 
obeyed her; and opened the shutter, and raised her up 
among the pillows. 

“Now bring my books to me,” she said, motioning 
eagerly with her fingers; “the large book, and the re- 
views, and the plays — I want them all.” 

He piled them round her on the bed; she drew them 
greedily closer, her eyes very bright, but her face as white 
as a mountain lily. 

“Now the big one oif the drawers. No, you need not 
help me to hold my book,” she said; “I can hold it for 
myself.” 

Gregory went back to his corner, and for a little time 
the restless turning over of leaves was to be heard. 

“Will you open the window,” she said almost queru- 
lously, ^^and throw this hook out? It is so utterly foolish. 
I thought it was a valuable hook; but the words are 
merely strung together, they make no sense. Yes — so!” 
she said with approval, seeing him fiing it out into the 
street. “I must have been very foolish when I thought 
that book good.” 

Then she turned to read, and leaned her little elbows 
resolutely on the great volume, and knit her brows. This 
was Shakespeare — it must mean something. 

“I wish you would take a handkerchief and tie it tight 
round my head, it aches so.” 

He had not been long in his seat when he saw drops 
fall from beneath the hands that shaded the eyes, on to 
the page. 


286 


THE STOR Y OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


‘‘I am not accustomed to so much light, it makes my 
head swim a little,’’ she said. ‘‘Go out and close the 
shutter.” 

When he came back she lay shriveled up among the 
pillows. 

He heard no sound of weeping, but the shoulders 
shook. He darkened the room completely. 

When Gregory went to his sofa that night she told him 
to wake her early; she would be dressed before breakfast. 
Nevertheless, when morning came, she said it was a little 
cold, and lay all day watching her clothes upon the chair. 
Still she sent for her oxen in the country; they would 
start on Monday and go down to the Colony. 

In the afternoon she told him to open the window wide, 
and draw the bed near it. 

It was a leaden afternoon, the dull rain-clouds rested 
close to the roofs of the houses, and the little street was 
silent and deserted. Now and then a gust of wind eddy- 
ing round caught up the dried leaves, whirled them 
hither and thither under the trees, and dropped them 
again into the gutter; then all was quiet. She lay look- 
ing out. 

Presently the bell of the church began to toll, and up 
the village street came a long procession. They were 
carrying an old man to his last resting-place. She fol- 
lowed them with her eyes till they turned in among the 
trees at the gate. 

“Who was that?” she asked. 

“An old man,” he answered, “a very old man; they 
say he was ninety-four; but his name I do not know.” 

She mused awhile, looking out with fixed eyes. 

“That is why the bell rang so cheerfully,” she said. 
“When the old die it is well; they have had their time. 
It is when the young die that the bells weep drops of 
blood.” 


THE 8T0R T OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 287 

‘‘But the old love life?’’ he said; for it was sweet to 
hear her speak. 

She raised herself on her elbow. 

“They love life, they do not want to die,” she an- 
swered; “but what of that? They have had their time. 
They knew that a man’s life is three-score years and ten; 
they should have made their plans accordingly! But 
the young,” she said, “the young cut down, cruelly, 
when they have not seen, when they have not known 
— when they have not found — it is for them that the 
bells weep blood. I heard in the ringing it was an old 
man. When the old die — Listen to the bell! it is laugh- 
ing — ‘It is right, it is right; he has had his time.’ They 
cannot ring so for the young.” 

She fell b^ck exhausted; the hot light died from her 
eyes, and she lay looking out into the street. By and by 
stragglers from the funeral began to come back and dis- 
appear here and there among the houses; then all was 
quiet, and the night began to settle down upon the vil- 
lage street. Afterward, when the room was almost dark, 
so that they could not see each other’s faces, she said, 
“It will rain to-night;” and moved restlessly on the pil- 
lows. “How terrible when the rain falls down on you.” 

He wondered what she meant, and they sat on in the 
still darkening room. She moved again. 

“Will you presently take my cloak — the new gray cloak 
from behind the door — and go out with it. You will find 
a little grave at the foot of the tall gum-tree; the water 
drips off the long, pointed leaves; you must cover it up 
with that.” 

She moved restlessly as though in pain. 

Gregory assented, and there was silence again. It was 
the first time she had ever spoken of her child. 

“It was so small,” she said; “it lived such a little 
while — only three hours. They laid it close by me, but I 


288 


THE 8T0RT OF AH AFRICAH FARM. 


never saw it; I could feel it by me/’ She waited; “its 
feet were so cold; I took them in my hand to make them 
warm, and my hand closed right over them, they were so 
little.” There was an uneven trembling in the voice. 
“It crept close to me; it wanted to - drink, it wanted to 
be warm.” She hardened herself — “I did not love it; its 
father was not my prince; I did not care for it; but it 
was so little.” She moved her hand. “They might 
have kissed it, one of them, before they put it in. It 
never did any one any harm in all its little life. They 
might have kissed it, one of them.” 

Gregory felt that some one was sobbing in the room. 

Late on in the evening, when the shutter was closed 
and the lamp lighted, and the rain-drops beat on the 
roof, he took the cloak from behind the donr and went 
away with it. On his way back he called at the village 
post-office and brought back a letter. In the hall he 
stood reading the address. How could he fail to know 
whose hand had written it? Had he not long ago studied 
those characters on the torn fragments of paper in the 
old parlor? A burning pain was at Gregory’s heart. If 
now, now, at the last, one should come, should step in 
between! He carried the letter into the bedroom and 
gave it to her. “Bring me the lamp nearer,” she said. 
When she had read it she asked for her desk. 

Then Gregory sat down in the lamplight on the other 
side of the curtain, and heard the pencil move on the 
paper. When he looked round the curtain she was lying 
on the pillow musing. The open letter lay at her side; 
she glanced at it with soft eyes. The man with the 
languid eyelids must have been strangely moved before 
his hand set down those words: 

“Let me come back to you! My darling, let me put 
my hand round you, and guard you from all the world. 


THE STORY OF AN AFRTGAN FARM. 


2S9 


As my wife they shall never touch you. I have learned 
to love you more wisely, more tenderly, than of old; you 
shall have perfect freedom. Lyndall, grand little woman, 
for your own sake be my wife! 

“Why did you send that money back to me? You are 
cruel to me; it is not rightly done.’^ 

She rolled the little red pencil softly between her 
fingers, and her face grew very soft. Yet: 

“It cannot he,’’ she wrote; “I thank you much for the 
love you have shown me; but I cannot listen. You will 
call me mad, foolish — the world would do so; but I know 
what I need and the kind of path I must walk in. I can- 
not marry you. I will always love you for the sake of 
what lay by me those three hours; but there it ends. I 
must know and see, I cannot be bound to one whom I 
love as I love you. I am not afraid of the world — I will 
fight the world. One day — perhaps it may be far off — I 
shall find what I have wanted all my life; something 
nobler, stronger than I, before which I can kneel down. 
You lose nothing by not having me now; I am a weak, 
selfish; erring woman. One day I shall find something to 
worship, and then I shall be ” 

“Nurse,” she said; “take my desk away; I am sud- 
denly so sleepy; I will write more to-morrow.” She 
turned her face to the pillow; it was the sudden drowsi- 
ness of great weakness. She had dropped asleep in a 
moment, and Gregory moved the desk softly, and then 
sat in the chair watching. Hour after hour passed, but 
he had no wish for rest, and sat on, hearing the rain 
cease, and the still night settle down everywhere. At a 
quarter-past twelve he rose, and took a last look at the 
bed where she lay sleeping so peacefully; then he turned 
to go to his couch. Before he had reached the door she 
had started up and was calling him back. 

“You are sure you have put it up?” she said, with a 


290 


THE STOUT OF AH AFRICAN FARM. 


look of blank terror at the window. “It will not fall open 
in the night, the shutter — you are sure?^^ 

He comforted her. Yes, it was tightly fastened. 

“Even if it is shut,’^ she said, in a whisper, “you can- 
not keep it out! You feel it coming in at four o’clock, 
creeping, creeping up, up; deadly cold!” She shuddered. 

He thought she was wandering, and laid her little 
trembling body down among the blankets. 

“I dreamed just now that it was not put up,” she said, 
looking into his eyes; “and it crept right in and I was 
alone with it.” 

“What do you fear?” he asked tenderly. 

“The Gray Dawn,” she said, glancing round at the 
window. “1 was never afraid of anything, never, when I 
was a little child, but I have always been afraid of that. 
You will not let it come in to me?” 

“No, no; I will stay with you,” he continued. 

But she was growing calmer. “No; you must go to 
bed. I only awoke with a start; you must be tired. I 
am childish, that is all;” but she shivered again. 

He sat down beside her. After some time she said: 
“Will you not rub my feet?” 

He knelt down at the foot of the bed and took the tiny 
foot in his hand; it was swollen and unsightly now, but 
as he touched it he bent down and covered it with kisses. 

“It makes it better when you kiss it; thank you. 
What makes you all love me so?” Then dreamily she 
muttered to herself: “Not utterly bad, not quite bad — 
what makes them all love me so?” 

Kneeling there, rubbing softly, with his cheek pressed 
against the little foot, Gregory dropped to sleep at last. 
How long he knelt there he could not tell; but when he 
started up awake she was not looking at him. The eyes 
were fixed on the far corner, gazing wide and intent, 
with an unearthly light. 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


291 


He looked round fearfully. What did she see there? 
God’s angels come to call her? Something fearful? He 
saw only the purple curtain with the shadows that fell 
from it. Softly he whispered, asking what she saw 
there. 

And she said, in a voice strangely unlike her own: ‘H 
see the vision of a poor, weak soul striving after good. 
It was not cut short, and in the end it learned, through 
tears and much pain, that holiness is an infinite compas- 
sion for others; that greatness is to take the common 
things of life and walk truly among them; that” — she 
moved her white hand and laid it on her forehead — “hap- 
piness is a great love and much serving. It was not cut 
short; and it loved what it had learned — it loved — 
and ” 

Was that all she saw in the corner? 

Gregory told the landlady the next morning that she 
had been wandering all night. Yet, when he came in to 
give her her breakfast, she was sitting up against the pil- 
lows, looking as he had not seen her look before. 

“Put it close to me,” she said, “and when I have had 
breakfast I am going to dress.” 

She finished all he had brought her^eagerly. 

“I am sitting up quite by myself,” she said. “Give 
me his meat;” and she fed the dog herself, cutting his 
food small for him. She moved to the side of the bed. 

“Now bring the chair near and dress me. It is being 
in this room so long, and looking at that miserable little 
bit of sunshine that comes in through the shutter, that 
is making me so ill. Always that lion’s paw!” she said, 
with a look of disgust' at it. “Come and dress me.” 
Gregory knelt on the floor before her, and tried to draw 
on one stocking, but the little swollen foot refused to be 
covered. 

“It is very funny that I should have grown so fat since 


293 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


I have been so ill/’ she said, peering down curiously, 
‘perhaps it is want of exercise.” She looked troubled 
and said again, ‘‘Perhaps it is want of exercise.” She 
wanted Gregory to say so too. But he only found a 
larger pair; and then tried to force the shoes, oh, so 
tenderly! on to her little feet. 

“There,” she said, looking down at them when they 
were on, with the delight of a small child over its first 
shoes, “I could walk far now. How nice it looks! No,” 
she said, seeing the soft gown he had prepared for 
her, “I will not put that on. Get one of my white 
dresses — the one with the pink bows. I do not even want 
to think I have been ill. It is thinking and thinking of 
things that makes them real,” she said. “When you 
draw your mind together, and resolve that a thing shall 
not be, it gives way before you; it is not. Everything is 
possible if one is resolved,” she said. She drew in her 
little lips together, and Gregory obeyed her; she was so 
small and slight now it wa^ like dressing a small doll. 
He would have lifted her down from the bed when he 
had finished, but she pushed him from her, laughing 
very softly. It was the first time she had laughed in 
those long, dreary months. 

“No, no; I can get down myself,” she said, slipping 
cautiously on to the floor. “You see!” She cast a 
defiant glance of triumph when she stood there. “Hold 
the curtain up high, I want to look at myself.” 

He raised it, and stood holding it. She looked into 
the glass on the opposite wall. 

Such a queenly little figure in its pink and white. 
Such a transparent little face, refined by suffering intb 
an almost angel-like beauty. The face looked at her; she 
looked back, laughing softly. Doss, quivering with ex- 
citement, ran round her, barking. She took one step 
toward the door, balancing herself with outstretched 
hands. 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


293 


‘‘I am nearly there,” she said. 

Then she groped blindly. 

“Oh, I cannot see! I cannot see! Where am I?” she 
cried. 

When Gregory reached her she had fallen with her face 
against the sharp foot of the wardrobe and cut her fore- 
head. Very tenderly he raised the little crushed heap of 
muslin and ribbons, and laid it on the bed. Doss 
climbed up, and sat looking down at it. Very softly 
Gregory’s hands disrobed her. 

“You will be stronger to-morrow, and then we shall 
try again,” he said, but she neither looked at him nor 
stirred. 

When he had undressed her, and laid her in bed, Doss 
stretched himself across her feet and lay whining softly. 

So she lay all that morning, and all that afternoon. 

Again and again Gregory crept close to the bedside and 
looked at her; but she did not speak to him. AVas it 
stupor or was it sleep that shone under those half-closed 
eyelids. Gregory could not tell. 

At last in the evening he bent over her. 

“The oxen have come,” he said; “we can start to- 
morrow if you like. Shall I get the wagon ready to- 
night?” 

Twice he repeated his question. Then she looked up 
at him, and Gregory saw that all hope had died out of 
the beautiful eyes. It was not stupor that shone there, 
it was despair. 

“Yes, let us go,” she said. 

“It makes no difference,” said the doctor; “staying or 
going; it is close now.” 

So the next day Gregory carried her out in his arms to 
the wagon which stood “inspanned” before the door. As 
he laid her down on the “kartel” she looked far out 
across the plain. For the first time she spoke that day. 


294 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


‘^That blue mountain far away; let us stop when we 
get to it, not before.” She closed her eyes again. He 
drew the sails down before and behind, and the wagon 
rolled away slowly. The landlady and the niggers stood 
to watch it from the ‘^stoep.” 

Very silently the great wagon rolled along the grass- 
covered plain. The driver on the front box did not clap 
his whip or call to his oxen, and Gregory sat beside him 
with folded arms. Behind them, in the closed wagon, 
she lay with the dog at her feet, very quiet, with folded 
hands. He, Gregory, dared not be in there. Like 
Hagar, when she laid her treasure down in the wilder- 
ness, he sat afar off: ‘‘For Hagar said. Let me not see the 
death of the child.” 

Evening came, and yet the blue mountain was not 
reached, and all the next day they rode on slowly, but 
still it was far off. Only at evening they reached it; not 
blue now, but low and brown, covered with long waving 
grasses and rough stones. They drew the wagon up close 
to its foot for the night. It was a sheltered, warm spot. 

When the dark night had come, when the tired oxen 
were tied to the wheels, and the driver and leader had 
rolled themselves in their blankets before the fire, and 
gone to sleep, then Gregory fastened down the sails of 
the wagon securely. He fixed a long candle near the 
head of the bed, and lay down himself on the floor of the 
wagon near the back. He leaned his head against the 
“kartel,” and listened to the chewing of the tired oxen, 
and to the crackling of the fire, till, overpowered by 
weariness, he fell into a heavy sleep. Then all was very 
still in the wagon. The dog slept on his mistress’ feet, 
and only two mosquitoes, creeping in through a gap in 
the front- sail, buzzed drearily round. 

The night was grown very old when from a long, peace- 
ful sleep Lyndall awoke. The candle burned at her 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


295 


head, the dog lay on her feet; but he shivered; it 
seemed as though a coldness struck up to him from his 
resting-place. She lay with folded hands, looking 
upward; and she heard the oxen chewing, and she saw 
the two mosquitoes buzzing drearily round and round, 
and her thoughts — her thoughts ran far back into the 
past. 

Through these months of anguish a mist had rested on 
her mind; it was rolled together now, and the old clear 
intellect awoke from its long torpor. It looked back into 
the past; it saw the present; there was no future now. 
The old strong soul gathered itself together for the last 
time; it knew where it stood. 

Slowly raising herself on her elbow, she took from the 
sail a glass that hung pinned there. Her fingers were 
stiff and cold. She put the pillow on her breast, and 
stood the glass against it. Then the white face on the 
pillow looked into the white face in the glass. They had 
looked at each other often so before. It had been a 
child’s face once, looking out above its blue pinafore; it 
had been a woman’s face, with a dim shadow in the eyes, 
and a something which had said, ‘‘We are not afraid, you 
and I; we are together; we will fight, you and I.” Now 
to-night it had come to this. 

The dying eyes on the pillow looked into the dying 
eyes in the glass; they knew that their hour had come. 
She raised one hand and pressed the stiff fingers against 
the glass. They were growing very stiff. She tried to 
speak to it, but she would never speak again. Only the 
wonderful yearning light was in the eyes still. The body 
was dead now, but the soul, clear and unclouded, looked 
forth. 

Then slowly, without a sound, the beautiful eyes 
closed. The dead face that the glass reflected was a 
thing of marvelous beauty and tranquillity. The Gray 
Pawn crept in over it and saw it lying there. 


296 


THE 8T0RT OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


Had she found what she sought for — something to wor- 
ship? Had she ceased from being? Who shall tell us? 
There is a veil of terrible mist over the face of the Here- 
after. 


CHAPTEE XIII. 

DKEAMS. 

‘‘Tell me what a soul desires, and I will tell you what 
it is.” So runs the phrase. 

“Tell me what a man dreams, and I will tell you what 
he loves.” That also has its truth. 

For, ever from the earliest childhood to the latest age, 
day by day, and step by step, the busy waking life is fol- 
lowed and reflected by the life of dreams — waking dreams, 
sleeping dreams. Weird, misty, and distorted as the in- 
verted image of a mirage, or a figure seen through the 
mountain mist, they are still the reflections. of a reality. 

On the night when Gregory told his story Waldo sat 
alone before the fire, his untasted supper before him. 
He was weary after his day’s work — ^too weary to eat. 
He put the plate down on the floor for Doss, who licked 
it clean, and then went back to his corner. After a time 
the master threw himself across the foot of the bed with- 
out undressing, and fell asleep there. He slept so long that 
the candle burned itself out, and the room was in dark- 
ness. But he dreamed a lovely dream as he lay there. 

In his dream, to his right rose high mountains, their 
tops crowned with snow, their sides clothed with bush 
and bathed in the sunshine. At their feet was the sea, 
blue and breezy, bluer than any earthly sea, like the sea 
he had dreamed of in his boyhood. In the narrow forest 
that ran between the mountains and the sea the air was 
rich with the scent of the honey-creeper that hung from 


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397 


dark-green bushes, and through the velvety grass little 
streams ran purling down into the sea. 

He sat on a high square rock among the bushes, and 
Lyndall sat by him and sang to him. She was only a 
small child, with a blue pinafore, and a grave, grave, 
little face. He was looking up at the mountains, then 
suddenly when he looked round she was gone. He 
slipped down from his rock, and went to look for her, but 
he found only her little footmarks; he found them on the 
bright green grass, and in the moist sand, and there 
where the little streams ran purling down into the sea. 
In and out, in and out, and among the bushes where the 
honey-creeper hung, he went looking for her. At last, 
far off, in the sunshine, he saw her gathering shells upon 
the sand. She was not a child now, but a woman, and 
the sun shone on her soft brown hair, and in her white 
dress she put the shells she gathered. She was stooping, 
but when she heard his step she stood up holding her 
skirt close about her and waited for his coming. One 
hand she put in his, and together they walked on over 
the glittering sand and pink sea-shells; and they heard 
the leaves talking and they heard the waters babbling on 
their way to the sea, and they heard the sea singing to 
itself, singing, singing. 

At last they came to a place where was a long reach of 
pure white sand; there she stood still, and dropped on to 
the sand one by one the shells that she had gathered. 
Then she looked up into his face with her beautiful eyes. 
She said nothing; but she lifted one hand and laid it 
softly on his forehead; the other she laid on his heart. 

With a cry of suppressed agony Waldo sprang from the 
bed, flung open the upper half of the door, and leaned 
out, breathing heavily. 

Great God! it might be only a dream, but the pain was 
very real, as though a knife ran through his heart, as 


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THE 8T0BT OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


though some treacherous murderer crept on him in the 
dark! The strong man drew his breath like a frightened 
woman. 

‘‘Only a dream, but the pain was very real/’ he mut- 
tered, as he pressed his right hand upon his breast.^ 
Then he folded his arms on the door, and stood looking 
out into the starlight. 4 

The dream was with him still; the woman who was his 
friend was not separated from him by years — only that 
very night he had seen her. He looked up into the night 
sky that all his life long had mingled itself with his exist- 
ence. There were a thousand faces that he loved look- 
ing down at him, a thousand stars in their glory, in 
crowns, and circles, and solitary grandeur. To the man 
they were not less dear than to the boy they had been 
not less mysterious; yet he looked up at them and shud- 
dered; at last turned away from them with horror. Such 
countless multitudes stretching out far into space, and yet 
not in one of them all was she! Though he searched 
through them all, to the furthest, faintest point of light, 
nowhere should he ever say, “She is here!” To-morrow’s 
sun would rise and gild the world’s mountains, and shine 
into its thousand valleys; it would set and the stars creep 
out again. Year after year, century after century, the 
old changes of nature would go on, day and night, sum- 
mer and winter, seed-time and harvest; but in none of 
them all would she have part! 

He shut the door to keep out their hideous shining, 
and because the dark was intolerable lit a candle, and 
paced the little room, faster and faster yet. He saw be- 
fore him the long ages of eternity that would roll on, on, 
on, and never bring her. She would exist no more. A 
dark mist filled the little room. 

“Oh, little hand! oh, little voice! oh, little form!” he 
cried; “oh, little soul that walked with mine! oh, little 


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299 


soul, that looked so fearlessly down into the depths, do 
you exist no more forever — for all time ?"’ He cried more 
bitterly: “It is for this hour— this— that men blind rea- 
son, and crush out thought! For this hour— this, this— 
they barter truth and knowledge, take any lie, any 
creed, so it does not whisper to them of the dead that 
they are dead! Oh, God! for a Hereafter!” 

Pain made his soul weak; it cried for the old faith. 
They are the tears that fall into the new-made grave that 
cement the power of the priest. For the cry of the soul 
that loves and loses is this, only this: “Bridge over 
Death; blend the Here with the Hereafter; cause the 
mortal to robe himself in immortality; let me not say of 
my Dead that it is dead! I will believe all else, bear all 
else, endure all else!” 

Muttering to himself, Waldo walked with bent head, 
the mist in his eyes. 

To the souPs wild cry for its own there are many an- 
swers. He began to think of them. Was not there one 
of them all from which he might suck one drop of com- 
fort? 

“You shall see her again,” says the Christian, the true 
Bible Christian. “Yes; you shall see her again. ^And 
I saw the dead, great and small, stand before God, And 
the boohs were opened, and the dead toere judged fro^n 
those things which were written in the boohs. And who- 
soever teas not found written in the booh of life was cast 
into the lahe of fire, which is the second death.^ Yes; 
you shall see her again. She died so — with her knee 
unbent, with her hand unraised, with a prayer unuttered, 
in the pride of her intellect and the strength of her 
youth. She loved and she was loved; but she said no 
prayer to God; she cried for no mercy; she repented of 
no sin! Yes; you shall see her again.” 

In his bitterness Waldo laughed low. 


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Ah, he had long ceased to hearken to the hellish voice. 

But yet another speaks. 

“You shall see her again,” said the nineteenth-century 
Christian, deep into whose soul modern unbelief and 
thought have crept, though he knows it not. He it is 
who uses his Bible as the pearl-fishers use their shells, 
sorting out gems from refuse; he sets his pearls after his 
own fashion, and he sets them well. “Do not fear,” he 
says; “hell and judgment are not. God is love. I know 
that beyond this blue sky above us is a love as wide- 
spreading over all. The All-Eather will show her to you 
again; not spirit only — the little hands, the little feet you 
loved, you shall lie down and kiss them if you will. 
Christ arose, and did eat and drink, so shall she arise. 
The dead, all the dead, raised incorruptible! God is love. 
You shall see her again.” 

It is a heavenly song, this of the nineteenth-century 
Christian. A man might dry his tears to listen to it, but 
for this one thing — Waldo muttered to himself confus- 
edly: 

“The thing I loved was a woman proud and young; it 
had a mother once, who, dying, kissed her little baby, 
and prayed God that she might see it again. If it had 
lived the loved thing would itself have had a son, who, 
when he closed the weary eyes and smoothed the wrinkled 
forehead of his mother, would have prayed God to see 
that old face smile again in the Hereafter. To the son 
heaven will be no heaven if the sweet worn face is not in 
one of the choirs; he will look for it through the phalanx 
of God’s glorified angels; and the youth will look for the 
maid, and the mother for the baby. ‘And whose then 
shall she be at the resurrection of the dead?’ ” 

“Ah, God! ah, God! a beautiful dream,” he cried; 
“but can any one dream it not sleeping?” 

Waldo paced on, moaning in agony and longing. 


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301 


He heard the Transcendentalisms high answer. 

“What have you to do with flesh, the gross and miser- 
able garment in which spirit hides itself? You shall see 
her again. But the hand, the foot, the forehead you 
loved, you shall see no more. The loves, the fears, the 
frailties that are born with the flesh, with the flesh they 
shall die. Let them die! There is that in man that can- 
not die — a seed, a germ, an embryo, a spiritual essence. 
Higher than she was on earth, as the tree is higher than 
the seed, the man than the embryo, so shall you behold 
her; changed, glorified!’^ 

High words, ringing well; they are the offering of 
jewels to the hungry, of gold to the man who dies for 
bread. Bread is corruptible, gold is incorruptible; bread 
is light, gold is heavy; bread is common, gold is rare; 
but the hungry man will barter all your mines for one 
morsel of bread. Around God’s throne there may be 
choirs and companies of angels, cherubim and seraphim, 
rising tier above tier, but not for one of them all does the 
soul cry aloud. Only perhaps for a little human woman 
full of sin, that it once loved. 

“Change is death, change is death!” he cried. “I 
want no angel, only she; no holier and no better, with all 
her sins upon her, so give her me or give me nothing!” 

And, truly, does not the heart love its own with the 
strongest passion for their very frailties? Heaven might 
keep its angels if men were but left to men. 

“Change is death,” he cried ; “change is death! Who 
dares to say the body never dies, because it turns again to 
grass and flowers? And yet they dare to say the spirit 
never dies, because in space some strange unearthly being 
may have sprung up upon its ruins. Leave me! Leave 
me!” he cried in frantic bitterness. “Give me back what 
I have lost, or give me nothing.” 

For the soul’s fierce cry for immortality is this — only 


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THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM, 


this: Eeturn to me after death the thing as it was before. 
Leave me in the Hereafter the being that I am to-day. 
Eob me of the thoughts, the feelings, the desires that are 
my life, and you have left nothing to take. Your im- 
mortality is annihilation, your Hereafter is a lie. 

Waldo flung open the door, and walked out into the 
starlight, his pain-stricken thoughts ever driving him on 
as he paced there. 

‘‘There must be a hereafter because man longs for it!’’ 
he whispered. “Is not all life from the cradle to the 
grave one long yearning for that which we never touch? 
There must be a hereafter because we cannot think of 
any end to life. Can we think of a beginning? Is it 
easier to say ‘I was not’ than to say ‘I shall not be?’ And 
yet, where were we ninety years ago? Dreams, dreams! 
Ah, all dreams and lies! No ground anywhere.” 

He went back into the cabin and walked there. Hour 
after hour passed, and he was dreaming. 

For, mark you, men will dream; the most that can be 
asked of them is but that the dream be not in too glaring 
discord with the thing they know. He walked with bent 
head. 

All dies, all dies! the roses are red with the matter that 
once reddened the cheek of the child; the flowers bloom 
the fairest on the last year’s battleground; the work of 
death’s Anger cunningly wreathed over is at the heart of 
all things, even of the living. Death’s finger is every- 
where. The rocks are built up of a life that was. 
Bodies, thoughts, and loves die: from where springs that 
whisper to the tiny soul of man, “You shall not die?” 
Ah, is there no truth of which this dream is shadow? 

He fell into perfect silence. And, at last, as he walked 
there with his bent head, his soul passed down the steps 
of contemplation into that vast land where there is al- 
ways peace; that land where the soul, gazing long, loses 


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303 


all consciousness of its little self, and almost feels its 
hand on the old mystery of Universal Unity that sur- 
rounds it. 

‘‘No death, no death,” he muttered; “there is that 
which never dies — which abides. It is but the individual 
that perishes, the whole remains. It is the organism 
that vanishes, the atoms are there. It is but the man 
that dies, the Universal Whole of which he is part rev/orks 
him into its inmost self. Ah, what matter that man’s 
day be short! — that the sunrise sees him, and the sunset 
sees his grave; that of which he is but the breath has 
breathed him forth and drawn him back again. That 
abides — we abide.” 

For the little soul that cries aloud for continued per- 
sonal existence for itself and its beloved, there is no help. 
For the soul which knows itself no more as a unit, but as 
a part of the Universal Unity of which the Beloved also 
is a part; which feels within itself the throb of the Uni- 
versal Life; for that soul there is no death. 

“Let us die, beloved, you and I, that we may pass on 
forever through the Universal Life I” In that deep world 
of contemplation all fierce desires die out, and peace 
comes down. He, Waldo, as he walked there, saw no 
more the world that was about him; cried out no more 
for the thing that he had lost. His soul rested. Was it 
only John, think you, who saw the heavens open? The 
dreamers see it every day. 

Long years before the father had walked in the little 
cabin, and seen choirs of angels, and a prince like unto 
men, but clothed in immortality. 

The son’s knowledge was not as the father’s, therefore 
the dream was new-tinted, but the sweetness was all 
there, the infinite peace, that men find not in the little 
cankered kingdom of the tangible. The bars of the real 
are set close about us; we cannot open our wings but 


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IHE STORY OF AFT AFRIGAJY FARM, 


they are struck against them, and drop bleeding. But, 
when we glide between the bars into the great unknown 
beyond, we may sail forever in the glorious blue, seeing 
nothing but our own shadows. 

So age succeeds age, and dream succeeds dream, and of 
the joy of the dreamer no man knoweth but he who 
dreameth. 

Our fathers had their dream; we have ours; the gen- 
eration that follows will have its own. Without dreams 
and phantoms man cannot exist. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

WALDO GOES OUT TO SIT IN THE SUNSHINE. 

It had been a princely day. The long morning had 
melted slowly into a rich afternoon. Rains had covered 
the karroo with a heavy coat of green that hid the red 
earth everywhere. In the very chinks of the stone walls 
dark-green leaves hung out, and beauty and* growth had 
crept even into the beds of the sandy furrows and lined 
them with weeds. On the broken sod-walls of the old 
pigsty chick-weeds flourished, and ice-plants lifted their 
transparent leaves. Waldo was at work in the wagon- 
house again. He was making a kitchen-table for Em. 
As the long curls gathered in heaps before his plane, he 
paused for an instant now and again to throw one down 
to a small naked nigger, who had crept from its mother, 
who stood churning in the sunshine, and had crawled 
into the wagon-house. 

Erom time to time the little animal lifted its fat hand 
as it expected a fresh shower of curls; till Doss, jealous 
of his master’s noticing any other small creature but him- 
self, would catch the curl in his mouth and roll the little 
Kaffer over in the sawdust, much to that small animal’s 


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305 


contentment. It was too lazy an afternoon to be'really 
ill-natured, so Doss satisfied himself with snapping at the 
little nigger’s fingers, and sitting on him till he laughed. 
Waldo, as he worked, glanced down at them now and 
then, and smiled; biit he never looked out across the 
plain. He was conscious without looking of that broad 
green earth; it made his work pleasant to him. Near the 
shadow at the gable the mother of the little nigger stood 
churning. Slowly she raised and let fall the stick in her 
hands, murmuring to herself a sleepy chant such as her 
people love; it sounded like the humming of far-ofi bees. 

A different life showed itself in the front of the house, 
where Tant’ Sannie’s cart stood ready inspanned and the 
Boer-woman herself sat in the front room drinking coffee. 

She had come to visit her stepdaughter, probably for 
the last time, as she now weighed two hundred and sixty 
pounds, and was not easily able to move. On a chair sat 
her mild young husband nursing the baby — a pudding- 
faced, weak-eyed child. 

‘‘You take it and get into the cart with it,” said Tant’ 
Sannie. “What do you want here, listening to our 
woman’s talk?” 

The young man arose, and meekly went out with the 
baby. 

“I’m very glad you are going to be married, my child,” 
said Tant’ Sannie, as she drained the last drop from her 
coffee-cup. “I wouldn’t say so while that boy was here, 
it would make him too conceited; but marriage is the 
finest thing in the world. I’ve been at it three times, 
and if it pleased God to take this husband from me I 
should have another. There’s nothing like it, my child; 
nothing.” 

“Perhaps it might not suit all people, at all times, as 
well as it suits you, Tant’ Sannie,” said Em. There was 
a little shade of weariness in the voice. 


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THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


‘‘Not suit every one!’’ said Tant’ Sannie. “If the be- 
loved Eedeemer didn’t mean men to have wives what did 
He make women for? That’s what I say. If a woman’s 
old enough to marry, and doesn’t, she’s sinning against 
the Lord — it’s a wanting to know better than Him. 
What, does she think the Lord took all that trouble in 
making her for nothing? It’s evident He wants babies, 
otherwise why does He send them? Not that I’ve done 
much in that way myself,” said Tant’ Sannie sorrow- 
fully; “hut I’ve done my best.” 

She rose with some difficulty from her chair, and began 
moving slowly toward the door. 

“It’s a strange thing,” she said, “but you can’t love a 
man till you’ve had a baby. by him. Now there’s that 
boy there, when we were first married if he only sneezed 
in the night I boxed his ears; now if he lets his pipe-ash 
come on my milk-cloths I don’t think of laying a finger 
on him. There’s nothing like being married,” said Tant’ 
Sannie, as she puffed toward the door. “If a woman’s 
got a baby and a husband she’s got the best things the 
Lord can give her; if only the baby doesn’t have convul- 
sions. As for a husband, it’s very much the same who 
one has. Some men are fat, and some men are thin; 
some men drink brandy, and some men drink gin; but it 
all comes to the same thing in the end; it’s all one. A 
man’s a man, you know.” 

Here they came upon Gregory, who was sitting in the 
shade before the house. Tant’ Sannie shook hands with 
him. 

“I’m glad you’re going to get married,” she said. “I 
hope you’ll have as many children in five years as a cow 
has calves, and more too. I think I’ll just go and have a 
look at your soap-pot before I start,” she said, turning to 
Em. “Not that I believe in this new plan of putting 
soda in the pot. If the dear Father had meant soda to be 


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307 


put into soap what would He have made milk-bushes for, 
and stuck them all over the ^veld’ as thick as lambs in 
the lambing season?’’ 

She waddled off after Em in the direction of the built- 
in soap-pot, leaving Gregory as they found him, with hia 
dead pipe lying on the bench beside him, and his blue 
eyes gazing out far across the flat, like one who sits on 
tlie seashore watching that which is fading, fading from 
him. 

Against his breast was a letter found in the desk ad- 
dressed to himself, but never posted. It held only four 
words: “You must marry Em.” He wore it in a black 
bag round his neck. It was the only letter she had ever 
written to him. 

“You see if the sheep don’t have the scab this year!” 
said Tant’ Sannie as she waddled after Em. “It’s with 
all these new inventions that the wrath of God must fall 
on us. What were the children of Israel punished for, if 
it wasn’t for making a golden calf? I may have my sins, 
but I do remember the tenth commandment: ‘Honor thy 
father and mother that it may be well with thee, and that 
thou mayest live long in the land which the Lord thy 
God giveth thee!’ It’s all very well to say we honor 
them, and then to be flnding out things that they never 
knew, and doing things in a way that they never did 
them! My mother boiled soap with bushes, and I will 
boil soap with bushes. If the wrath of God is to fall 
upon this land,” said Tant’ Sannie, with the serenity of 
conscious virtue, “it shall not be through me.” 

“Let them make their steam-wagons and their fire- 
carriages; let them go on as though the dear Lord didn’t 
know what he was about when He gave horses and oxen 
legs — the destruction of the Lord will follow them. I 
don’t know how such people read their Bibles. When 
do we hear of Moses or Noah riding in a railway? The 


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THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


Lord sent fire-carriages out of heaven in those days: 
there’s no chance of His sending them for us if go on in 
this way/’ said Tant’ Sannie sorrowfully, thinking of 
the splendid chance which this generation had lost. 

Arrived at the soap-pot she looked over into it 
thoughtfully. 

‘^Depend upon it you’ll get the itch, or some other 
disease; the blessing of the Lord ’ll never rest upon it,” i 
said the Boer-woman. Then suddenly she broke forth. | 
‘‘And she eighty-two, and goats and rams, and eight | 
thousand morgen, and the rams real angora, and two 
thousand sheep, and a short-horn bull,” said Tant’ 
Sannie, standing upright and planting a hand on each ' 
hip. 

Em looked at her in silent wonder. Had connubial 
bliss and the joys of motherhood really turned the old 
Boer-woman’s head? 

“Yes,” said Tant’ Sannie; “I had almost forgotten to 
tell you. By the Lord if I had him here! We were 
walking to church last Sacrament Sunday, Piet and I. 
Close in front of us was old Tant’ Trana, with dropsy 
and cancer, and can’t live eight months. Walking by 
her was something with its hands under its coat-tails, 
fiap, fiap, flap; and its chin in the air, and a stick-up 
collar, and the black hat on the very back of the head. I 
knew him! ‘Who’s that?’ I asked. ‘The rich English- 
man that Tant’ Trana married last week.’ ‘Rich English- 
man! I’ll rich Englishman him,’ I said; ‘I’ll tell Tant’ 
Trana a thing or two.’ My fingers were just in his little 
white curls. If it hadn’t been the blessed Sacrament, 
he wouldn’t have walked so ‘sourka, sourka, courka,’ any 
more. But I thought. Wait till I’ve had it, and then — 
But he, sly fox, son of Satan, seed of the Amalekite, he 
saw me looking at him in the church. 

“The blessed Sacrament wasn’t half over when he 


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309 


takes' Tant’ Trana by the arm, and out they go. I clap 
my baby down to its father, and I go after them. But,’" 
said Tant’ Sannie regretfully, “I couldn’t get up to 
them; I am too fat. When I got to the corner he was 
pulling Tant’ Trana up into the cart. ^Tant’ Trana,’ I 
said, ‘you’ve married a Kaffer’s dog, a Hottentot’s 
“brakje.” ’ I hadn’t any more breath. He winked at 
me; he winked at me,” said Tant’ Sannie, her sides shak- 
ing with indignation, “first with one eye, and then with 
the other, and then drove away. Child of the Amale- 
kite!” said Tant’ Sannie, “if it hadn’t been the blessed 
Sacrament. Lord, Lord, Lord!” 

Here the little Bush-girl came running to say that the 
horses would stand no longer, and still breathing out 
vengeance against her old adversary she labored toward 
the cart. Shaking hands and affectionately kissing Em, 
she was with some difficulty drawn up. Then slowly the 
cart rolled away, the good Boer-woman putting her head 
out between the sails to smile and nod. 

Em stood watching it for a time, then as the sun daz- 
zled her eyes she turned away. There was no use in 
going to sit with Gregory! he liked best sitting there 
alone, staring across the green karroo; and till the maid 
had done churning there was nothing to do; so Em 
walked away to the wagon-house, and climbed on to the 
end of Waldo’s table, and sat there, swinging one little 
foot slowly to and fro, while the wooden curls from the 
plane heaped themselves up against her black print dress. 

“Waldo,” she said at last, “Gregory has given me the 
money he got for the wagon and oxen, and I have fifty 
pounds besides that once belonged to some one. I know 
what they would have liked to have done with it. You 
must take it and go to some place and study for a year or 
two.” 

“No, little one, I will not take it,” he said, as he 


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THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM, 


planed slowly away; ^‘the time was when I would have 
been very grateful to any one who would have given me a 
little money, a little help, a little power of gaining 
knowledge. But now, I have gone so far alone I may go 
on to the end. I don’t want it, little one.” 

She did not seem pained at his refusal, but swung her 
foot to and fro, the little old wrinkled forehead more 
wrinkled up than ever. 

“Why is it always so, Waldo, always so?” she said; “we 
long for things, and long for them, and pray for them; 
we would give all we have to come near to them, but we 
never reach them. Then at last, too late, just when we 
don’t want them any more, when all the sweetness is 
taken out of them, then they come. We don’t want them 
then,” she Said, folding her hands resignedly on her little 
apron. After awhile she added: “I remember once, very 
long ago, when I was a very little girl, my mother had a 
workbox full of colored reels. I always wanted to play 
with them, but she would never let me. At last one day 
she said I might take the box. I was so glad I hardly 
knew what to do. I ran round the house, and sat down 
with it on the back steps. But when I opened the box 
all the cottons were taken out.” 

She sat for awhile longer, till the Kaifer maid had 
finished churning, and was carrying the butter toward the 
house. Then Em prepared to slip off the table, but first 
she laid her little hand on Waldo’s. He stopped his 
planing and looked up. 

“Gregory is going to the town to-morrow. He is going 
to give in our bans to the minister; we are going to be 
married in three weeks.” 

Waldo lifted her very gently from the table. He did 
not congratulate her; perhaps he thought of the empty 
box, but he kissed her forehead gravely. 

She walked away toward the house, but stopped when 


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311 


she got halfway. ‘‘I will bring you a glass of buttermilk 
when it is cool/’ she called out; and soon her clear voice 
came ringing out through the back windows as she sang 
the “Blue Water” to herself, and washed the butter. 

Waldo did not wait till she returned. Perhaps he had 
at last really grown weary of work; perhaps he felt the 
wagon-house chilly (for he had shuddered two or three 
times), though this was hardly likely in that warm sum- 
mer weather; or, perhaps, and most probably, one of his 
old dreaming fits had come upon him suddenly. 

He put his tools together, ready for to-morrow, and 
walked slowly out. At the side of the wagon-house there 
was a world of bright sunshine, and a hen with her 
chickens was scratching among the gravel. Waldo seated 
himself near them with his back against the red-brick 
wall. The long afternoon was half-spent, and the 
“kopje” was just beginning to cast its shadow over the 
round-headed yellow flowers that grew between it and the 
farmhouse. Among the flowers the white butterflies 
hovered, and on the old “kraal” mounds three white kids 
gamboled, and at the door of one of the huts an old gray- 
headed Kaffer-woman sat on the ground mending her 
mats. A balmy, restful peacefulness seemed to reign 
everywhere. Even the old hen seemed well satisfied. 
She scratched among the stones and called to her chickens 
when she found a treasure; and all the while clucked to 
herself with intense inward satisfaction. 

Waldo, as he sat with his knees drawn up to his chin 
and his arms folded on them, looked at it all and smiled. 
An evil world, a deceitful, treacherous, mirage-like 
world, it might be; but a lovely world for all that, and to 
sit there gloating in the sunlight was perfect. It was 
worth having been a little child, and having cried and 
prayed, so one might sit there. He moved his hands as 
though he were washing them in the sunshine. There 


3 12 the STOR Y of an AFRICA N FARM, 

will always be something worth living for while there are 
shimmery afternoons. Waldo chuckled with intense in- 
ward satisfaction as the old hen had done — she, over the 
insects and the warmth; he, over the old brick walls, and 
the haze, and the little bushes. Beauty is God’s wine, 
with which He recompenses the souls that love Him; He 
makes them drunk. 

The fellow looked, and at last stretched out one hand 
to a little ice-plant that grew on the sod- wall of the sty; 
not as though he would have picked it, but as it were in 
a friendly greeting. He loved it. One little leaf of the 
ice-plant stood upright, and the sun shone through it. 
He could see every little crystal cell like a drop of ice in 
the transparent green, and it thrilled him. 

There are only rare times when a man’s soul can see 
Nature. 

So long as any passion holds its revel there, the eyes 
are holden that they should not see her. 

Go out if you will and walk alone on the hillside in the 
evening, but if your favorite child lies ill at home, or 
your lover comes to-morrow, or at your heart there lies a 
scheme for the holding of wealth, then you will return as 
you went out; you will have seen nothing. For Nature, 
ever, like the Old Hebrew God, cries out, “Thou shalt 
have no other gods before me.” Only then, when there 
comes a pause, a blank in your life, when the old idol is 
broken, when the old hope is dead, when the old desire is 
crushed, then the divine compensation of Nature is made 
manifest. She shows herself to you. So near she draws 
you, that the blood seems to flow from her to you, 
through a still uncut cord: you feel the throb of her life. 

When that day comes, that you sit down broken, with- 
out one human creature to whom you cling, with your loves 
the dead and the living-dead; when the very thirst for 
knowledge through long-continued thwarting has grown 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


313 


dull; when in the present there is no craving, and in the 
future no hope, then, oh, with a beneficent tenderness, 
Nature infolds you. 

Then the large white snowfiakes as they flutter down, 
softly, one by one, whisper soothingly, “Eest, poor heart, 
rest!’’ It is as though our mother smoothed our hair, 
and we are comforted. 

And yellow-legged bees as they hum make a dreamy 
lyric; and the light on the brown stone wall is a great 
work of art; and the glitter through the leaves makes the 
pulses beat. 

Well to die then; for, if you live, so surely as the years 
come, so surely as the spring succeeds the winter, so 
surely will passions arise. They will creep back, one by 
one, into the bosom that has cast them forth, and fasten 
there again, and peace will go. Desire, ambition, and 
the fierce agonizing flood of love for the living they will 
spring again. Then Nature will draw down her veil; 
with all your longing you shall not be able to raise one 
corner; you cannot bring back those peaceful days. Well 
to die then! 

Sitting there with his arms folded on his knees, and his 
hat slouched down over his face, Waldo looked out into 
the yellow sunshine that tinted even the very air with the 
color of ripe corn, and was happy. 

He was an uncouth creature with small learning, and 
no prospect in the future but that of making endless 
tables and stone walls, yet it seemed to him as he sat 
there that life was a rare and very rich thing. He rubbed 
his hands in the sunshine. Ah, to live on so, year after 
year, how well! Always in the present; letting each day 
glide, bringing its own labor, and its own beauty; the 
gradual lighting up of the hills, night and the stars, fire- 
light and the coals! To live on so, calmly, far from the 


314 


THE 8T0BY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


paths of men; and to look at the lives of clouds and in- 
sects; to look deep into the heart of flowers, and see how 
lovingly the pistil and the stamens nestle there together; 
and to see in the thorn-pods how the little seeds suck 
their life through the delicate curled-up string, and how 
the little embryo sleeps inside! Well, how well, to sit so 
on one side taking no part in the world’s life; hut when 
great men blossom into hooks looking into those flowers 
also, to see how the world of men too opens beautifully, 
leaf after leaf. Ah! life is delicious; well to live long, 
and see the darkness breaking, and the day coming! The 
day when soul shall not thrust back soul that would come 
to it; when men shall not be driven to seek solitude be- 
cause of the crying-out of their hearts for love and sym- 
pathy. Well to live long and see the new time breaking. 
Well to live long; life is sweet, sweet, sweet! In his 
breast-pocket, where of old the broken slate used to be, 
there was now a little dancing-shoe of his friend who was 
sleeping. He could feel it when he folded his arm tight 
against his breast; and that was well also. He drew his 
hat lower over his eyes and sat so motionless that the 
chickens thought he was asleep, and gathered closer 
around him. One even ventured to peck at his boot; 
but he ran away quickly. Tiny, yellow fellow that he 
was, he knew that men were dangerous; even sleeping 
they might awake. But Waldo did not sleep, and com- 
ing back from his sunshiny dream, stretched out his hand 
for the tiny thing to mount. But the chicken eyed the 
hand, and then ran off to hide under its mother’s wing, 
and from beneath it it sometimes put out its round head 
to peep at the great figure sitting there. Presently its 
brothers ran off after a little white moth and it ran out to 
join them; and when the moth fluttered away over their 
heads they stood looking up disappointed^ and then ran 
back to their mother. 


THE STOUT OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


315 


Waldo through his half-closed eyes looked at them. 
Thinking, fearing, craving, those tiny sparks of brother 
life, what were they, so real there in that old yard on that 
sunshiny afternoon ? A few years — where would they be? 
Strange little brother spirits! He stretched his hand 
toward them, for his heart went out to them; but not one 
of the little creatures came nearer him, and he watched 
them gravely for a time; then he smiled, and began mut- 
tering to himself after his old fashion. Afterward he 
folded his arms upon his knees, and rested his forehead 
on them. And so he sat there in the yellow sunshine, 
muttering, muttering, muttering, to himself. 

It was not very long after when Em came out at the 
back door with a towel thrown across her head, and in 
her hand a cup^of milk. 

“Ah,’^ she said, coming close to him, ‘‘he is sleeping 
now. He will find it when he wakes, and be glad of it.^^ 

She put it down upon the ground beside him. The 
mother-hen was at work still among the stones, but the 
chickens had climbed about him and were perching on 
him. One stood upon his shoulder, and rubbed its little 
head softly against his black curls; another tried to 
balance itself on the very edge of the old felt hat. One 
tiny fellow stood upon his hand, and tried to crow; 
another had nestled itself down comfortably on the old 
coat-sleeve, and gone to sleep there. 

Em did not drive them away; but she covered the glass 
softly at his side. “He will wake soon/^ she said, “and 
be glad of it.’^ 

But the chickens were wiser. 


THE END. 


316 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


DEEAMS. 


Note, — These Dreams are printed in the order in which they 
were written. 

In the case of two there was a lapse of some years between the 
writing of the first and last parts; these are placed according to the 
date of the first part. 

Olive Schreiner. 

Matjesfontein, Cape Colony, South Africa, November, 1890. 


THE LOST JOY. 

All day, where the sunlight played on the seashore. 
Life sat. 

All day the soft wind played with her hair, and the 
young, young face looked out across the water. She was 
waiting — she was waiting; hut she could not tell for 
what. 

All day the waves ran up and up on the sand, and ran 
back again, and the pink shells rolled. Life sat waiting; 
all day, with the sunlight in her eyes, she sat there, till, 
grown weary, she laid her head upon her knee and fell 
asleep, waiting still. 

Then a keel grated on the sand, and then a step was on 
the shore — Life awoke and heard it. A hand was laid 
upon her, and a great shudder passed through her. She 
looked up, and saw over her the strange, wide eyes of 
Love — and Life now knew for whom she had sat there 
waiting. 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


317 


And Love drew Life up to him. 

And of that meeting was born a thing rare and beauti- 
ful — Joy, First- Joy was it called. The sunlight when it 
shines upon the merry water is not so glad; the rosebuds, 
when they turn back their lips for the sun^s first kiss, 
are not so ruddy. Its tiny pulses beat quick. It was so 
warm, so soft! It never spoke, but it laughed and played 
in the sunshine; and Love and Life rejoiced exceedingly. 
Neither whispered it to the other, but deep in its own 
heart each said, ‘‘It shall be ours forever.” 

Then there came a time — was it after weeks? was it 
after months? (Love and Life do not measure time) — 
when the thing was not as it had been. 

Still it played; still it laughed; still it stained its 
mouth with purple berries; but sometimes the little 
hands hung weary, and the little eyes looked out heavily 
across the water. 

And Life and Love dared not look into each other’s 
eyes, dared not say, “What ails our darling?” Each 
heart whispered to itself, “It is nothing, it is nothing, 
to-morrow it will laugh out clear.” But to-morrow and 
to-morrow came. They journeyed on, and the child 
played beside them, but heavily, more heavily. 

One day Life and Love lay down to sleep; and when 
they awoke, it was gone: only, near them, on the grass, 
sat a little stranger with wide-open eyes, very soft and 
sad. Neither noticed it; but they walked apart, weeping 
bitterly, “Oh, our Joy! our lost Joy! shall we see you no 
more forever?” 

The little soft and sad-eyed stranger slipped a hand 
into one hand of each, and drew them closer, and Life 
and Love walked on with it between them. And when 
Life looked down in anguish, she saw her tears refiected 
in its soft eyes. And when Love, mad with pain, cried 
out, “I am weary, I am weary! I can journey no further. 


318 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


The light is all behind, the dark is all before,” a little 
rosy finger pointed where the sunlight lay upon the hill- 
sides. Always its large eyes were sad and thoughtful; 
always the little brave mouth was smiling quietly. 

When on the sharp stones Life cut her feet, he wiped 
the blood upon his garments, and kissed the wounded 
feet with his little lips. When in the desert Love lay 
down faint (for Love itself grows faint), he ran over the 
hot sand with his little naked feet, and even there in the 
desert found water in the holes in the rocks to moisten 
Love’s lips with. He was no burden — he never weighted 
them; he only helped them forward on their journey. 

When they came to the dark ravine where the icicles 
hang from the rocks — for Love and Life must pass 
through strange drear places — there, where all is cold, 
and the snow lies thick, he took their freezing hands and 
held them against his beating little heart, and warmed 
them — and softly he drew them on and on. 

And when they came beyond, into the land of sunshine 
and flowers, strangely the great eyes lit up, and dimples 
broke out upon the face. Brightly laughing, it ran over 
the soft grass; gathered honey from the hollow tree, and 
brought it them on the palm of its hand; carried them 
water in the leaves of the lily, and gathered flowers and 
wreathed them round their heads, softly laughing all the 
while. He touched them as their Joy had touched them, 
but his fingers clung more tenderly. 

So they wandered on, through the dark lands and the 
light, always with that little brave smiling one between 
them. Sometimes they remembered that first radiant 
Joy, and whispered to themselves, “Oh! could we but 
find him also!” 

At last they came to where Reflection sits; that 
strange old woman, who has always one elbow on her 


THE STORY OF AH AFRICAN FARM, 


319 


knee, and her chin in her hand, and who steals light out 
of the past to shed it on the future. 

And Life and Love cried out, ‘‘0 wise one! tell us: 
when first we met, a lovely radiant thing belonged to us 
— gladness without a tear, sunshine without a shade. 
Oh! how did we sin that we lost it? Where shall we go 
that we may find it?’’ 

And she, the wise old woman, answered, ‘‘To have it 
back, will you give up that which walks beside you now?” 

And in agony Love and Life cried, “No!” 

“Give up this!” said Life. “When the thorns have 
pierced me, who will suck the poison out? When my 
head throbs, who will lay his tiny hands upon it and still 
the beating? In the cold and the dark, who will warm 
my freezing heart?” 

And Love cried out, “Better let me die! Without Joy 
I can live; without this I cannot. Let me rather die, 
not lose it!” 

And the wise old woman answered, “0 fools and blind! 
What you once had is that which you have now! When 
Love and Life first meet, a radiant thing is born, without 
a shade. When the roads begin to roughen, when the 
shades begin to darken, when the days are hard, and the 
nights cold and long — then it begins to change. Love 
and Life will not see it, will not know it — till one day 
they start up suddenly, crying, ‘0 God! 0 God! we have 
lost it! Where is it?’ They do not understand that they 
could not carry the laughing thing unchanged into the 
desert, and the frost, and the snow. They do not know 
that what walks beside them still is the Joy grown older. 
The grave, sweet, tender thing — warm in the coldest 
snows, brave in the dreariest deserts — its name is Sym- 
pathy; it is the Perfect Love.” 

South Africa. 


320 


IHE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


THE HUNTEK. 

Ik certain valleys there was a hunter. Day by day he 
went to hunt for wild-fowl in the woods; and it chanced 
that once he stood on the shores of a large lake. While 
he stood waiting in the rushes for the coming of the 
birds, a great shadow fell on him, and in the water he 
saw a reflection. He looked up to the sky; but the 
thing was gone. Then a burning desire came over him 
to see once again that reflection in the water, and all day 
he watched and waited; but night came, and it had not 
returned. Then he went home with his empty bag, 
moody and silent. His comrades came questioning about 
him to know the reason, but he answered them nothing; 
he sat alone and brooded. Then his friend came to him, 
and to him he spoke. 

“I have seen to-day,” he said, ‘That which I never saw 
before — a vast white bird, with silver wings outstretched, 
sailing in the everlasting blue. And now it is as though 
a great fire burned within my breast. It was but a 
sheen, a shimmer, a reflection in the water; but now I 
desire nothing more on earth than to hold her.” 

His friend laughed. 

“It was but a beam playing on the water, or the 
shadow of your own head. To-morrow you will forget 
her,” he said. 

But to-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow the 
hunter walked alone. He sought in the forest and in the 
woods, by the lakes and among the rushes, but he could 
not find her. He shot no more wild-fowl; what were 
they to him? 

“What ails him?” said his comrades. 

“He is mad,” said one. 

“Ho, but he is worse,” said another; “he would see 


THE STOUT OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


321 


that which none of us have seen, and make himself a 
wonder/’ 

“Come, let us forswear his company,” said all. 

So the hunter walked alone. 

One night, as he wandered in the shade, very heart- 
sore and weeping, an old man stood before him, grander 
and taller than the sons of men. 

“Who are you?” asked the hunter. 

“I am Wisdom,” answered the old man; “but some 
men call me Knowledge. All my life I have grown in 
these valleys; but no man sees me till he has sorrowed 
much. The eyes must be washed with tears that are to 
behold me; and, according as a man has suffered, I 
speak.” 

And the hunter cried: 

“Oh, you who have lived here so long, tell me, what is 
that great wild bird I have seen sailing in the blue? 
They would have me believe she is a dream; the shadow 
of my own head.” 

The old man smiled. 

“Her name is Truth. He who has once seen her never 
rests again. Till death he desires her.” 

And the hunter cried: 

“Oh, tell me where I may find her.” 

But the man said: 

“You have not suffered enough,” and went. 

Then the hunter took from his breast the shuttle of 
Imagination, and wound on it the thread of his Wishes; 
and all night he sat and wove a net. 

In the morning he spread the golden net open on the 
ground, and into it he threw a few grains of credulity, 
which his father had left him, and which he kept in his 
breast-pocket. They were like white puff-balls, and when 
you trod on them a brown dust fiew out. Then he. sat 
by to see what would happen. The first that came into 


322 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


the net was a snow-white bird, with dove’s eyes, and he 
sang a beautiful song — ‘‘A human-God! a human-God! a 
human-God!” it sang. The second that came was black 
and mystical, with dark, lovely eyes, that looked into 
the depths of your soul, and he sang only this — “Immor- 
tality!” 

And the hunter took them both in his arms, for he 
said: 

“They are surely of the beautiful family of Truth.” 

Then came another, green and gold, who sang in a 
shrill voice, like one crying in the market-place: “Ke- 
ward after Death! Reward after Death!” 

And he said: 

“You are not so fair; hut you are fair too,” and he 
took it. 

And others came, brightly colored, singing pleasant 
songs, till all the grains were finished. And the hunter 
gathered all his birds together, and built a strong iron 
cage called a new creed, and put all his birds in it. 

Then the people came about dancing and singing. 

“Oh, happy hunter!” they cried. “Oh, wonderful 
man! Oh, delightful birds! Oh, lovely songs!” 

No one asked where the birds had come from, nor how 
they had been caught; but they danced and sang before 
them. And the hunter too was glad, for he said: 

“Surely Truth is among them. In time she will moult 
her feathers, and I shall see her snow-white form.” 

But the time passed, and the people sang and danced; 
but the hunter’s heart grew heavy. He crept alone, as 
of old, to weep; the terrible desire had awakened again in 
his breast. One day, as he sat alone weeping, it chanced 
that Wisdom met him. He told the old man what he 
had done. 

And Wisdom smiled sadly. 

“Many men,” he said, “have spread that net for 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


323 


Truth; but they have never found her. On the grains 
of credulity. she will not feed; in the net of wishes her 
feet cannot be held; in the air of these valleys she will 
not breathe. The birds you have caught are of the brood 
of Lies. Lovely and beautiful, but still lies; Truth 
knows them not.^^ 

And the hunter cried out in bitterness: 

‘‘And must I then sit still to be devoured of this great 
burning?” 

And the old man said: 

“Listen, and in that you have suffered much and wept 
much, I will tell you what I know. He who sets out to 
search for Truth must leave these valleys of superstition 
forever, taking with him not one shred that has belonged 
to them. Alone he must wander down into the Land of 
Absolute Negation and Denial; he must abide there;, he 
must resist temptation; when the light breaks he must 
arise and follow it into the country of dry sunshine. The 
mountains of stern reality will rise before him; he must 
climb them; beyond them lies Truth.” 

“And he will hold her fast! he will hold her in his 
hands!” the hunter cried. 

Wisdom shook his head. 

“He will never see her, never hold her. The time is 
not yet.” 

“Then there is no hope?” cried the hunter. 

“There is this,” said Wisdom. “Some men have 
climbed on those mountains; circle above circle of bare 
rock they have scaled; and, wandering there, in those 
high regions, some have chanced to pick up on the 
ground one white, silver feather, dropped from the wing 
of Truth. And it shall come to pass,” said the old man, 
raising himself prophetically and pointing with his finger 
to the sky, “it shall come to pass, that, when enough of 
those silver feathers shall have been gathered by th^ 


324 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


hands of men, and shall have been woven into a cord, 
and the cord into a net, that in that net Truth may be 
captured. Nothing hut Truth can hold TruthN 

The hunter arose. ‘T will go,’’ he said. 

But Wisdom detained him. 

“Mark you well — who leaves these valleys never re- 
turns to them. Though he should weep tears of blood 
seven days and nights upon the confines, he can never 
put his foot across them. Left — they are left forever. 
Upon the road which you would travel there is no reward 
offered. Who goes, goes freely — for the great love that 
is in him. The work is his reward.” 

“I go,” said the hunter; “but upon the mountains, 
tell me, which path shall I take?” 

“I am the child of The-Accumulated-Knowledge-of- 
Ages,” said the man; “I can walk only where many men 
have trodden. On these mountains few feet have passed; 
each man strikes out a path for himself. He goes at his 
own peril; my voice he hears no more. I may follow 
after him, but I cannot go before him.” 

Then Knowledge vanished. 

And the hunter turned. He went to his cage, and 
with his hands broke down the bars, and the jagged iron 
tore his fiesh. It is sometimes easier to build than to 
break. 

One by one he took his plumed birds and let them fly. 
But, when he came to his dark-plumed bird, he held it, 
and looked into his beautiful eyes, and the bird uttered 
its low, deep cry — “Immortality!” 

And he said quickly, “I cannot part with it. It is not 
heavy; it eats no food. I will hide it in my breast; I will 
take it with me.” And he buried it there, and covered 
it over with his cloak. 

But the thing he had hidden grew heavier, heavier, 
heavier-^till it lay on his breast like lead. He could not 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


325 


move with it. He could not leave those valleys with it. 
Then again he took it out and looked at it. 

‘‘Oh, my beautiful, my heart’s own!” he cried, “may 
I not keep you?” 

He opened his hands sadly. 

“Go,” he said. “It may happen that in Truth’s song 
one note is like to yours; but / shall never hear it.” 

Sadly he opened his hand, and the bird flew from him 
forever. 

Then from the shuttle of Imagination he took the 
thread of his wishes, and threw it on the ground; and 
the empty shuttle he put into his breast, for the thread 
was made in those valleys, but the shuttle came from an 
unknown country. He turned to go, hut now the people 
came about him, howling. 

“Fool, hound, demented lunatic!” they cried. “How 
dared you break your cage and let the birds fly?” 

The hunter- spoke; but they would not hear him. 

“Truth! who is she? Can you eat her? can you drink 
her? Who has ever seen her? Your birds were real; all 
could hear them sing! Oh, fool! vile reptile! atheist!” 
they cried, “you pollute the air.” 

“Come, let us take up stones and stone him,” cried 
some. 

“What affair is it of ours?” said others. “Let the 
idiot go;” and went away. But the rest gathered up 
stones and mud and threw at him. At last, when he was 
bruised and cut, the hunter crept away into the woods. 
And it was evening about him. 

He wandered on and on, and the shade grew deeper. 
He was on the borders now of the land where it is always 
night. Then he stepped into it, and there was no light 
there. With his hands he groped; but each branch as he 
touched it broke off, and the earth was covered with 
cinders. At every step his foot sank in, and a fine cloud 


326 


THE STOUT OF AN AFRICAN FARM, 


of impalpable ashes flew up into his face; and it was 
dark. So he sat down upon a stone and buried his face 
in his hands, to wait in that Land of Negation and 
Denial till the light came. 

And it was night in his heart also. 

Then from the marshes to his right and left cold mists 
arose and closed about him. A fine, imperceptible rain 
fell in the dark, and great drops gathered on his hair and 
clothes. His heart beat slowly, and a numbness crept 
through all his limbs. Then, looking up, two merry wisp 
lights came dancing. He lifted his head to look at them. 
Nearer, nearer they came. So warm, so bright, they 
danced like stars of fire. They stood before him at last. 
From the center of the radiating flame in one looked out 
a woman’s face, laughing, dimpled, with streaming yellow 
hair. In the center of the other were merry laughing 
ripples, like the bubbles on a glass of wine. They danced 
before him. 

“Who are you,” asked the hunter, “who alone come to 
me in my solitude and darkness?” 

“We are the twins Sensuality,” they cried. “Our 
father’s name is Human-Nature, and our mother’s name 
is Excess. We are as old as the hills and rivers, as old as 
the first man; but we never die,” they laughed. 

“Oh, let me wrap my arms about you!” cried the first; 
“they are soft and warm. Your heart is frozen now, but 
I will make it beat. Oh, come to me!” 

“I will pour my hot life into you,” said the second; 
“your brain is numb, and your limbs are dead now; but 
they shall live with a fierce free life. Oh, let me pour it 
in!” 

“Oh, follow us,” they cried, “and live with us. Nobler 
hearts than yours have sat here in this darkness to wait, 
and they have come to us and we to them; and they have 
never left us, never. All else is a delusion, but we are 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


327 


real, we are real. Truth is a shadow; the valleys of 
superstition are a farce; the earth is of ashes, the trees all 
rotten; but we — feel us — we live! You cannot doubt us. 
Feel us, how warm we are! Oh, come to us! Come with 
us!’^ 

Nearer and nearer round his head they hovered, and 
the cold drops melted on his forehead. The bright light 
shot into his eyes, dazzling him, and the frozen blood 
began to run. And he said: 

‘‘Yes; why should I die here in this awful darkness? 
They are warm, they melt my frozen blood !^’ and he 
stretched out his hands to take them. 

Then in a moment there arose before him the image of 
the thing he had loved, and his hand dropped to his side. 

“Oh, come to us!^^ they cried. 

But he buried his face. 

“You dazzle my eyes,^’ he cried, “you make my heart 
warm; but you cannot give me what I desire. I will wait 
here — wait till I die. Go!’’ 

He covered his face with his hands and would not 
listen; and when he looked up again they were two 
twinkling stars, that vanished in the distance. 

And the long, long night rolled on. 

All who leave the valley of superstition pass through 
that dark land; but some go through it in a few days, 
some linger there for months, some for years, and some 
die there. 

At last for the hunter faint light played along the 
horizon, and he rose to follow it; and he reached that 
light at last, and stepped into the broad sunshine. Then 
before him rose the almighty mountains of Dry-facts and 
Kealities. The clear sunshine played on them, and the 
tops were lost in the clouds. At the foot many paths 
ran up. An exultant cry burst from the hunter. He 
chose the straightest and began to climb; and the rocks 


328 the 8T0R Y OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 

and ridges resounded with his song. They had exag- 
gerated; after alh it was not so high, nor was the road so 
steep! A few days, a few weeks, a few months at most, 
and then the top! Not one feather only would he pick 
up; he would gather all that other men had found — 
weave the net — capture Truth — hold her fast — touch her 
with his hands — clasp her. 

He laughed in the merry sunshine, and sang loud. 
Victory was very near. Nevertheless, after awhile the 
path grew steeper. He needed all his breath for climb- 
ing, and the singing died away. On the right and left 
rose huge rocks, devoid of lichen or moss, and in the 
lava-like earth chasms yawned. Here and there he saw a 
sheen of white bones. Now, too, the path began to grow 
less and less marked; then it became a mere trace, with a 
footmark here and there; then it ceased altogether. 
He sang no more, but struck forth a path for himself, 
until he reached a mighty wall of rock, smooth and with- 
out break, stretching as far as the eye could see. “1 will 
rear a stair against it; and, once this wall climbed, I 
shall be almost there,’’ he said bravely and worked. With 
his shuttle of imagination he dug out stones; but half of 
them would not fit, and half a month’s work would roll 
down because those below were ill chosen. But the 
hunter worked on, saying always to himself, “Once this 
wall climbed, I shall be almost there. This great work 
ended!” 

At last he came out upon the top, and he looked about 
him. Far below rolled the white mist over the valleys of 
superstition, and above him towered the mountains. 
They had seemed low before; they were of an immeasur- 
able height now, from crown to foundation surrounded by 
walls of rock, that rose tier above tier in mighty circles. 
Upon them played the eternal sunshine. He uttered a 
wild cry. He bowed himself on to the earth, and when 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


329 


he rose his face was white. In absolute silence he walked 
on. He was very silent now. In those high regions the 
rarefied air is hard to breathe by those born in the val- 
leys; every breath he drew hurt him, and the blood oozed 
out from the tips of his fingers. Before the next wall of 
rock he began to work. The height of this seemed 
infinite, and he said nothing. The sound of his tool rang 
night and day upon the iron rocks into which he cut steps. 
Years passed over him, yet he worked on; but the wall 
towered up always above him to heaven. Sometimes he 
prayed that a little moss or lichen might spring up on 
those bare walls to be a companion to him; but it never 
came. 

And the years rolled on; he counted them by the steps 
he had cut — a few for a year — only a few. He sang no 
more; he said no more, “I will do this or that’’ — he ouly 
worked. And at night, when the twilight settled down, 
there looked out at him from the holes and crevices in 
the rocks strange wild faces. 

‘‘Stop your work, you lonely man, and speak to us,” 
they cried. 

“My salvation is in work. If I should stop but for 
one moment you would creep down upon me,” he replied. 
And they put out their long necks further. 

“Look down into the crevice at your feet,” they said. 
“See what lie there — white bones! As brave and strong 
a man as you climbed to these rocks. And he looked up. 
He saw there was no use in striving; he would never hold 
Truth, never see her, never find her. So he lay down 
here, for he was very tired. He went to sleep forever. 
He put himself to sleep. Sleep is very tranquil. You 
are not lonely when you are asleep, neither do your 
hands ache, nor your heart.” And the hunter laughed 
between his teeth. 

“Have I torn from my heart all that was dearest; have 


330 


THE STORT OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


I wandered alone in the land of night; have I resisted 
temptation; have I dwelt where the voice of my kind is 
never heard, and labored alone, to lie down and be food 
for you, ye harpies?’^ 

He laughed fiercely; and the Echoes of Despair slunk 
away, for the laugh of a brave, strong heart is as a death- 
blow to them. 

Nevertheless they crept out again and looked at him. 

‘^Do you know that your hair is white?’’ they said, “that 
your hands begin to tremble like a child’s? Do you see 
that the point of your shuttle is gone? — it is cracked al- 
ready. If you should ever climb this stair,” they said, 
“it will be your last. You will never climb another.” 

And he answered, I know and worked on. 

The old, thin hands cut the stones ill and jaggedly, for 
the fingers were stiff and bent. The beauty and the 
strength of the man were gone. 

At last an old, wizened, shrunken face looked out 
above the rocks. It saw the eternal mountains rise with 
walls to the white clouds; but its work was done. 

The old hunter folded his tired hands and lay down by 
the precipice where he had worked away his life. It was 
the sleeping time at last. Below him over the valleys 
rolled the thick white mist. Once it broke; and through 
the gap the dying eyes looked down on the trees and 
fields of their childhood. From afar seemed borne to 
him the cry of his own wild birds, and he heard the noise 
of people singing as they danced. And he thought he 
heard among them the voices of his old comrades; and 
he saw far off the sunlight shine on his early home. 
And great tears gathered in the hunter’s eyes. 

“Ah! they who die there do not die alone,” he cried. 

Then the mists rolled together again; and he turned 
his eyes away. 

“I have sought,” he said, “for long years I have 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


331 


labored; but I have not found her. 1 have not rested, I 
have not repined, and I have not seen her; now my 
strength is gone. Where I lie down worn out, other men 
will stand, young and fresh. By the steps that I have 
cut they will climb; by the stairs that I have built they 
will mount. They will never know the name of the man 
who made them. At the clumsy work they will laugh; 
when the stones roll they will curse me. But they will 
mount, and on my work; they will climb, and by my 
stair! They will find her, and through me! And no 
man liveth to himself, and no man dieth to himself.’^ 

The tears rolled from beneath the shriveled eyelids. 
If Truth had appeared above him in the clouds now he 
could not have seen her, the mist of death was in his 
eyes. 

“My soul hears their glad step coming,’’ he said; “and 
they shall mount! they shall mount!” He raised his 
shriveled hand to his eyes. 

Then slowly from the white sky above, through the 
still air, came something falling, falling, falling. Softly 
it fiuttered down, and dropped on to the breast of the 
dying man. He felt it with his hands. It was a feather. 
He died holding it. 


THE GAEDENS OF PLEASTJEE. 

She walked upon the beds, and the sweet, rich scent 
arose; and she gathered her hands full of fiowers. Then 
Duty, with his white, clear features, came and looked at 
her. Then she ceased from gathering, but she walked 
away among the fiowers, smiling, and with her hands full. 

Then Duty, with his still, white face, came again, and 
looked at her; but she, she turned her head away from him. 


332 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


At last she saw his face, and she dropped the fairest of 
the flowers she had held, and walked silently away. 

Then again he came to her. And she moaned, and 
bent her head low, and turned to the gate. But as she 
went out she looked back at the sunlight on the faces of 
the flowers, and wept in anguish. Then she went out, 
and it shut behind her forever; but still in her hand she 
held of the buds she had gathered, and the scent was 
very sweet in the lonely desert. 

But he followed her. Once more he stood before her 
with his still, white, deathlike face. And she knew 
what he had come for; she unbent the fingers, and let the 
flowers drop out, the flowers she had loved so, and 
walked on without them, with dry, aching eyes. Then 
for the last time he came. And she showed him her 
empty hands, the hands that held nothing now. But 
still he looked. Then at length she opened her bosom 
and took out of it one small flower she had hidden there, 
and laid it on the sand. She had nothing more to give 
now, and she wandered away, and the gray sand whirled 
about her. 


IN A FAK-OFF WORLD. 

There is a world in one of the far-off stars, and things 
do not happen here as they happen there. 

In that world were a man and woman; they had one 
work, and they walked together side by side on many 
days, and were friends— and that is a thing that happens 
now and then in this world also. 

But there was something in that star-world that there 
is not here. There was a thick wood; where the trees 
grew closest, and the stems were interlocked, and the 
summer sun never shone, there stood a shrine. In the 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


333 


day all was quiet, but at night, when the stars shone or 
the moon glinted on the tree-tops, and all was quiet be- 
low, if one crept here quite alone and knelt on the steps 
of the stone altar, and uncovering one’s breast, so 
wounded it that the blood fell down on the altar steps, 
then whatever he who knelt there wished for was granted 
him. And all this happens, as I said, because it is a far- 
off world and things often happen there as they do not 
happen here. 

Now, the man and woman walked together; and the 
woman wished well to the man. One night when the 
moon was shining so that the leaves of all the trees 
glinted, and the waves of the sea were silvery, the woman 
walked alone to the forest. It was dark there; the 
moonlight fell only in little flecks on the dead leaves 
under her feet, and the branches were knotted tight 
overhead. Further in it got darker, not even a fleck of 
moonlight shone. Then she came to the shrine; she 
knelt down before it and prayed; there came no answer. 
Then she uncovered her breast; with a sharp two-edged 
stone that lay there she wounded it. The drops dripped 
slowly down on to the stone, and a voice cried, “What do 
you seek?” 

She answered, “There is a man; I hold him nearer than 
anything. I would give him the best of all blessings.” 

The voice said, “What is it?” 

The girl said, “I know not, but that which is most 
good for him I wish him to have.” 

The voice said, “Your prayer is answered; he shall 
have it.” 

Then she stood up. She covered her breast and held 
the garment tight upon it with her hand, and ran out of 
the forest, and the dead leaves fluttered under her feet. 
Out in the moonlight the soft air was blowing, and the 
sand glittered on the beach. She ran along the smooth 


334 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


shore, then suddenly she stood still. Out across the 
water there was something moving. She shaded her eyes 
and looked. It was a boat; it was sliding swiftly over 
the moonlit water out to sea. One stood upright in it; 
the face the moonlight did not show, but the figure she 
knew. It was passing swiftly; it seemed as if no one 
propelled it; the moonlight’s shimmer did not let her see 
clearly, and the boat was far from shore, but it seemed 
almost as if there was another figure sitting in the stern. 
Faster and faster it glided over the water away, away. 
She ran along the shore; she came no nearer it. The 
garment she had held closed fluttered open; she stretched 
out her arms, and the moonlight shone on her long loose 
hair. 

Then a voice beside her whispered, ‘^What is it?” 

She cried, ‘‘With my blood I bought the best of all 
gifts for him. I have come to bring it him! He is 
going from me!” 

The voice whispered softly, “Your prayer was an- 
swered. It was given him.” 

She cried, “What is it?” 

The voice answered, “It is that he might leave you.” 

The girl stood still. 

Far out at sea the boat was lost to sight beyond the 
moonlight sheen. 

The voice spoke softly, “Art thou contented?” 

She said, “I am contented.” 

At her feet the waves broke in long ripples softly on 
the shore. 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


335 


THREE DREAMS IN A DESERT. 

UNDER A MIMOSA-TREE. 

As I traveled across an African plain the sun shone 
down hotly. Then I drew my horse up under a mimosa- 
tree, and I took the saddle from him and left him to 
feed among the parched bushes. And all to right and to 
left stretched the brown earth. And I sat down under 
the tree, because the heat beat fiercely, and all along the 
horizon the air throbbed. And after awhile a heavy 
drowsiness came over me, and I laid my head down 
against my saddle, and I fell asleep there. And, in my 
sleep, I had a curious dream. 

I thought I stood on the border of a great desert, and 
the sand blew about everywhere. And I thought I saw 
two great figures like beasts of burden of the desert, and 
one lay upon the sand with its neck stretched out, and 
one stood by it. And I looked curiously at the one that 
lay upon the ground, for it had a great burden on its 
back, and the sand was thick about it so that it seemed 
to have piled over it for centuries. 

And I looked very curiously at it. And there stood 
one beside me watching. And I said to him, ‘‘What is 
this huge creature who lies here on the sand?’’ 

And he said, “ This is woman; she that bears men in 
her body.” 

And I said, “Why does she lie here motionless with 
the sand piled round her?” 

And he answered, “Listen, I will tell you! Ages and 
ages long she has lain here, and the wind has blown over 
her. The oldest, oldest, oldest man living has never seen 
her move.; the oldest, oldest book records that she lay 
here then, as she lies here now, with the sand about her. 
But listen! Older than the oldest book, older than the 


336 STOR T OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 

oldest recorded memory of man, on the Kocks of Lan- 
guage, on the hard-baked clay of Ancient Customs, now 
crumbling to decay, are found the marks of her foot- 
steps! Side by side with his who stands beside her you 
may trace them; and you know that she who now lies 
there once wandered free over the rocks with him.’’ 

And I said, “Why does she lie there now?” 

And he said, “I take it, ages ago the Age-of-dominion- 
of-muscular-force found her, and when she stooped low 
to give suck to her young, and her hack was broad, he 
put his burden of subjection on to it, and tied it on with 
the broad band of Inevitable Necessity. Then she looked 
at the earth and the sky, and knew there was no hope for 
her; and she lay down on the sand with the burden she 
could not loosen. Ever since she has lain here. And the 
ages have come, and the ages have gone, but the band of 
Inevitable Necessity has not been cut.” 

And I looked and saw in her eyes the terrible patience 
of the centuries; tlie ground was wet with her tears, and 
her nostrils blew up the sand. 

And I said, “Has she ever tried to move?” 

And he said, “Sometimes a limb has quivered. But 
she is wise; she knows she cannot rise with the burden 
on her.” 

And I said, “Why does not he who stands by her leave 
her and go on?” 

And he said, “He cannot. Look ” 

And I saw a broad band passing along the ground from 
one to the other, and it bound them together. 

He said, “While she lies there he must stand and look 
across the desert.” 

And I said, “Does he know why he cannot move?” 

And he said, “No.” 

And I heard a sound of something cracking, and I 
looked, and I saw the band that hound the burden on to 


THE 8 T 0 RT OF AN AFRICAN FABM. . 337 

her back broken asunder; and the burden rolled on to 
the ground. 

And I said, ‘‘What is this?’’ 

And he said, ‘‘The Age-of-muscular-force is dead. The 
Age-of-nervous-force has killed him with the knife he 
holds in his hand; and silently and invisibly he has crept 
up to the woman, and with that knife of Mechanical 
Invention he has cut the band that bound the burden to 
her back. The Inevitable Necessity is broken. She might 
rise now.” 

And I saw that she still lay motionless on the sand, 
with her eyes open and her neck stretched out. And 
she seemed to look for something on the far-off border of 
the desert that never came. And I wondered if she were 
awake or asleep. And as I looked her body quivered, 
and a light came into her eyes, like when a sunbeam 
breaks into a dark room. 

I said, “What is it?” 

He whispered, “Hush! the thought has come to her, 
‘Might I not rise?’ ” 

And I looked. And she raised her head from the sand, 
and I saw the dent where her neck had lain so long. And 
she looked at the earth, and she looked at the sky, and 
she looked at him who stood by her; but he looked out 
across the desert. 

And I saw her body quiver; and she pressed her front 
knees to the earth, and veins stood out; and I cried, “She 
is going to rise!” 

But only her sides heaved, and she lay still where she 
was. 

But her head she held up; she did not lay it down 
again. And he beside me said, “She is very weak. See, 
her legs have been crushed under her so long.” 

And I saw the creature struggle; and the drops stood 
out on her. 


338 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM, 


And I said, ‘‘Surely he who stands beside her will help 
her?’’ 

And he beside me answered, “He cannot help her; she 
must help herself. Let her struggle till she is strong.” 

And I cried, “At least he will not hinder her! See, he 
moves further from her, and tightens the cord between 
them, and he drags her down.” 

And he answered, “'He does not understand. When 
she moves she draws the band that binds them, and hurts 
him, and hf moves further from her. The day will come 
when he will understand, and will know what she is do- 
ing. Let her once stagger on to her knees. In that day 
he will stand close to her, and look into her eyes with 
sympathy.” 

And she stretched her neck, and the drops fell from 
her. And the creature rose an inch from the earth and 
sank back. 

And I cried, “Oh, she is too weak! she cannot walk! 
The long years have taken all her strength from her. 
Can she never move?” 

And he answered me, “See the light in her eyes!” 

And slowly the creature staggered on to its knees. 

And I awoke; and all to the east and to the west 
stretched the barren earth, with the dry bushes on it. 
The ants ran up and down in the red sand, and the heat 
iDeat fiercely. I looked up through the thin branches of 
the tree at the blue sky overhead. I stretched myself, 
and I mused over the dream I had had. And I fell 
asleep again, with my head on my saddle. And in the 
fierce heat I had another dream. 

I saw a desert and I saw a woman coming out of it. 
And she came to the bank of a dark river; and the bank was 
steep and high.* And on it an old man met her, who 

* The banks of an African river are sometimes a hundred feet 
high, and consist of deep shifting sands, through which in the course 
of ages the river has worn its gigantic bed. 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


339 


had a long white beard; and a stick that curled was in 
his hand, and on it was written Eeason. And he asked 
her what she wanted; and she said, “I am woman; and I 
am seeking for the land of Freedom/^ 

And he said, “It is before you.’’ 

And she said, “I see nothing before me hut a dark 
flowing river, and a bank steep and high, and cuttings 
here and there with heavy sand in them.” 

And he said, “And beyond that?” 

She said, “I see nothing, but sometimes, when I shade 
my eyes with my hand, I think I see on the further bank 
trees and hills, and the sun shining on them!” 

He said, “That is the Land of Freedom.” 

She said, “How am I to get there?” 

He said, “There is one way, and one only. Down the 
banks of Labor, through the water of Suffering. There 
is no other.” 

She said, “Is there no bridge?” 

He answered, “None.” 

She said, “Is the water deep?” 

He said, “Deep.” 

She said, “Is the floor worn?” 

He said, “It is. Your foot may slip at any time, and 
you may be lost.” 

She said, “Have any crossed already?” 

He said, “Some have tried!” 

She said, “Is there a track to show where the best 
fording is?” 

He said, “It has to be made.” 

She shaded her eyes with her hand; and she said, “I 
will go.” 

And he said, “You must take off the clothes you wore 
in the desert; they are dragged down by them who go 
into the water so clothed.” 

And she threw from her gladly the mantle of Ancient- 


340 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


received-opinions she wore, for it was worn full of holes. 
And she took the girdle from her waist that she had 
treasured so long, aud the moths flew out of it in a cloud. 
And he said, ‘‘Take the shoes of dependence off your 
feet.’’ 

And she stood there naked, hut for one white garment 
that clung close to her. 

And he said, “That you may keep. So they wear 
clothes in the Land of Freedom. In the water it buoys; 
it always swims.” 

And I saw on its breast was written Truth; and it was 
white; the sun had not often shone on it; the other 
clothes had covered it up. And he said, “Take this 
stick; hold it fast. In that day when it slips from your 
hand you are lost. Put it down before you; feel your 
way; where it cannot find a bottom donot set your foot.” 

And she said, “I am ready; let me go.” 

And he said, “No — but stay; what is that — in your 
breast?” 

She was silent. 

He said, “Open it, and let me see.” 

And she opened it. And against her breast was a tiny 
thing, who drank from it, and the yellow curls above his 
forehead pressed against it; and his knees were drawn up 
to her, and he held her breast fast with his hands. 

And Eeason said, “Who is he, and what is he doinsr 
here?” 

And she said, “See his little wings ” 

And Reason said, “Put him down.” 

And she said, “He is asleep, and he is drinking! I will 
carry him to the Land of Freedom. He has been a child 
so long, so long, I have carried him. In the Land of 
Freedom he will be a man. We will walk together there, 
and his great white wings will overshadow me. He has 
lisped one word only to me in the desert — ‘Passion!’ I 


THE STOUT OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


341 


have dreamed he might learn to say ‘Friendship’ in that 
land.” 

And Reason said, “Put him down!” 

And she said, “I will carry him so — with one arm, and 
with the other I will fight the water.” 

He said, “Lay him down on the ground. When you 
are in the water you will forget to fight, you will think 
only of him. Lay him down.” He said, “He will not 
die. When he finds you have left him alone he will open 
his wings and fiy. He will he in the Land of Freedom 
before you. Those who reach the Land of Freedom, the 
first hand they see stretching down the bank to help 
them shall he Love’s. He will be a man then, not a 
child. In your breast he c^funot thrive; put him down 
that he may grow.” 

And she took her bosom from his mouth, and he hit 
her, so that the blood ran down on to the ground. And 
she laid him down on the earth; and she covered her 
wound. And she bent and stroked his wings. And I 
saw the hair on her forehead turned white as snow, and 
she had changed from youth to age. 

And she stood far off on the bank of the river. And 
she said, “For what do I go to this far land which no one 
has ever reached? Oh, 1 am alone! I am utterly 
alone 

And Reason, that old man, said to her, “Silence! what 
do you hear?” 

And she listened intently, and she said, “I hear a 
sound of feet, a thousand times ten thousand and thou- 
sands of thousands, and they beat this way!” 

He said, “They are the feet of those that shall follow 
you. Lead on! make a track to the water’s edge! 
Where you stand now, the ground will he beaten flat by 
ten thousand times ten thousand feet.” And he said, 
“Have you seen the locusts how they cross a stream? 


342 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


First one comes down to the water-edge, and it is swept 
away, and then another comes and then another, and then 
another, and at last with their bodies piled up a bridge is 
built and the rest pass over/^ 

She said, ‘‘And, of those that come first, some are 
swept away, and are heard of no more; their bodies do 
not even build the bridge 

“And are swept away, and are heard of no more — and 
what of that?” he said. 

“And what of that ” she said. 

“They make a track to the water’s edge.” 

“They make a track to the water’s edge — ” And she 
said, “Over that bridge which shall be built with our 
bodies, who will pass?” 

He said, “TAe entire human race.^^ 

And the woman grasped her staff. 

And I saw her turn down that dark path to the river. 

And I awoke; and all about me was the yellow after- 
noon light; the sinking sun lit up the fingers of the 
milk-bushes; and my horse stood by me quietly feeding. 
And I turned on my side, and I watched the ants run by 
thousands in the red sand. I thought I would go on my 
way now — the afternoon was cooler. Then a drowsiness 
crept over me again, and I laid back my head and fell 
asleep. 

And I dreamed a dream. 

I dreamed I saw a land. And on the hills walked 
brave women and brave men, hand in hand. And they 
looked into each other’s eyes, and they were not afraid. 

And I saw the women also hold each other’s hands. 

And I said to him beside me, “What place is this?’^ 

And he said, “This is heaven.” 

And I said, “Where is it?” 

And he answered, “On earth.” 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


343 


And I said, “When shall these things be?’^ 

And he answered, “Ijif the Future/’ 

And I awoke, and all about me was the sunset light; 
and on the low hills the sun lay, and a delicious coolness 
had crept over everything; and the ants were going 
slowly home. And I walked toward my horse, who stood 
quietly feeding. Then the sun passed down behind the 
hills; but I knew that the next day he would arise again. 


A DKEAM OF WILD BEES. 

A Mother sat alone at an open window. Through it 
came the voices of the children as they played under the 
acacia-trees, and the breath of the hot afternoon air. In 
and out of the room flew the bees, the wild bees, with 
their legs yellow with pollen, going to and from the 
acacia-trees, droning all the while. She sat on a low 
chair before the table and darned. She took her work 
from the great basket that stood before her on the table: 
some lay on her knee and half-covered the book that 
rested there. She watched the needle go in and out; and 
the dreary hum of the bees and the noise of the children’s 
voices became a confused murmur in her ears, as she 
worked slowly and more slowly. Then the bees, the 
long-legged, wasp-like fellows who make no honey, flew 
closer and closer to her head, droning. Then she grew 
more and more drowsy, and she laid her hand, with the 
stocking over it, on the edge of the table, and leaned her 
head upon it. And the voices of the children outside 
grew more and more dreamy, came now far, now near; 
then she did not hear them, but she felt under her heart 
where the ninth child lay. Bent forward and sleeping 
there, with the bees flying about her head, she had a 


344 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM, 


weird brain-picture; she thought the bees lengthened and 
lengthened themselves out and became human creatures 
and moved round and round her. Then one came to her 
softly, saying, ‘‘Let me lay my hand upon thy side where 
the child sleeps. If I shall touch him he shall be as 

She asked, “Who are you?” 

And he said, “I am Health. Whom I touch will have 
always the red blood dancing in his veins; he will not 
know weariness nor pain; life will be a long laugh to 
him.” 

“No,” said another, “let me touch; for I am Wealth. 
If I touch him material care shall not feed on him. He 
shall live on the blood and sinews of his fellow-men, if 
he will; and what his eye lusts for, his hand will have. 
He shall not know ‘I want.^ ” And the child lay still 
like lead. 

And another said, “Let me touch him: I am Fame. 
The man I touch, I lead to a high hill where all men may 
see him. When he dies he is not forgotten, his name 
rings down the centuries, each echoes it on to his fellows. 
Think — not to be forgotten through the ages!” 

And the mother lay breathing steadily, but in the 
brain-picture they pressed closer to her. 

“Let me touch the child,” said one, “for I am Love. 
If I touch him he shall not walk through life alone. In 
the greatest dark, when he puts out his hand he shall 
find another hand by it. When the world is against him, 
another shall say, ^You and I A ” And the child 
trembled. 

But another pressed close and said, “Let me touch; 
for I am Talent. I can do all things — that have been 
done before. I touch the soldier, the statesman, the 
thinker, and the politician who succeed; and the writer 
who is never before his time, and never behind it. If I 
touch the child he shall not weep for failure.” 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


345 


About the mother’s head the bees were flying, touch- 
ing her with their long tapering limbs; and, in her brain- 
picture, out of the shadow of the room came one with 
sallow face, deep-lined, the cheeks drawn into hollows, 
and a mouth smiling quiveringly. He stretched out his 
hand. And the mother drew back, and cried, ‘‘Who are 
you?” He answered nothing; and she looked up be- 
tween his eyelids. And she said, “What can you give 
the child — health?” 

And he said, “The man I touch, there wakes up in 
his blood a burning fever, that shall lick his blood as fire. 
The fever that I will give him shall be cured when his 
life is cured.” 

“You give wealth?” 

He shook his head. “The man whom I touch, when 
he bends to pick up gold, he sees suddenly a light over 
his head in the sky; while he looks up to see it, the gold 
slips from between his fingers, or sometimes another pass- 
ing takes it from him.” 

“Tame?” 

He answered, “Likely not. For the man I touch there 
is a path traced out in the sand by a finger which no man 
sees. That he must follow. Sometimes it leads almost 
to the top, and then turns down suddenly into the val- 
ley. He must follow it, though none else sees the 
tracing.” 

“Love?” 

He said, “He shall hunger for it — but he shall not find 
it. When he stretches out his arms to it, and would lay 
his heart against a thing he loves, then, far off along the 
horizon he shall see a light play. He must go toward it. 
The thing he loves will not journey with him; he must 
travel alone. When he presses somewhat to his burning 
heart, crying, ‘Mine, mine, my own!’ he shall hear a 
yoice — ‘Eenounce! renounce! this is not thine!’ ” 


346 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


‘‘He shall succeed?’’ 

He said, “He shall fail. When he runs with others 
they shall reach the goal before him. For strange voices 
shall call to him and strange lights shall beckon him, 
and he must wait and listen. And this shall be the 
strangest; far off across the burning sands where, to other 
men, there is only the desert’s waste, he shall see a blue 
sea! On that sea the sun shines always, and the water is 
blue as burning amethyst, and the foam is white on the 
shore. A great land rises from it, and he shall see upon 
the mountain-tops burning gold.” 

The mother said, “He shall reach it?” 

And he smiled curiously. 

She said, “It is real?” 

And he said, “What is real?” 

And she looked up between his half-closed eyelids, and 
said, “Touch.” 

And he leaned forward and laid his hand upon the 
sleeper, and whispered to it, smiling; and this only she 
heard — shall he thy reward— that the ideal shall 
he real to thee.^^ 

And the child trembled; but the mother slept on 
heavily and her brain-picture vanished. But deep within 
her the antenatal thing that lay here had a dream. In 
those eyes that had never seen the day, in that half- 
shaped brain was a sensation of light! Light — that it 
never had seen. Light — that perhaps it never should 
see. Light that existed somewhere! 

And already it had its reward: the Ideal was real to it. 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


347 


IN A RUINED CHAPEL. 

There are four bare walls; there is a Christ upon the 
walls, in red, carrying his cross; there is a Blessed 
Bambino with the face rubbed out; there is Madonna in 
blue and red; there are Roman soldiers and a Christ with 
tied hands. All the roof is gone; overhead is the blue, 
blue Italian sky; the rain has beaten holes in the walls, 
and the plaster is peeling from it. The chapel stands 
here alone upon the promontory, and by day and by 
night the sea breaks at its feet. Some say that it was set 
here by the monks from the island down below, that they 
might bring their sick here in times of deadly plague. 
Some say that it was set here that the passing monks and 
friars, as they hurried by upon the roadway, might stop 
and say their prayers here. Now no one stops to pray 
here, and the sick come no more to be healed. 

Behind it runs the old Roman road. If you climb it 
and come and sit there alone on a hot sunny day you 
may almost hear at last the clink of the Roman soldiers 
upon the pavement, and the sound of that older time, as 
you sit there in the sun, when Hannibal and his men 
broke through the brushwood, and no road was. 

Now it is very quiet. Sometimes a peasant girl comes 
riding by between her panniers, and you hear the mule’s 
feet beat upon the bricks of the pavement; sometimes an 
old woman goes past with a bundle of weeds upon her 
head, or a brigand-looking man hurries by with a bundle 
of sticks in his hand; but for the rest the chapel lies here 
alone upon the promontory, between the two bays, and 
hears the sea break at its feet. 

I came here one winter’s day when the midday sun 
shone hot on the bricks of the Roman road. I was weary, 
and the way seemed steep. I walked into the chapel to 
the broken window, and looked out across the bay. Far 


48 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


off, across the blue, blue water, were towns and villages, 
hanging white and red dots, upon the mountain-sides, 
and the blue mountains rose up into the sky, and now 
stood out from it and now melted back again. 

The mountains seemed calling to me, but I knew there 
would never be a bridge built from them to me; never, 
never, never! I shaded my eyes with my hand and 
turned away. I could not bear to look at them. 

I walked through the ruined chapel, and looked at the 
Christ in red carrying his cross, and the blessed rubbed- 
out Bambino, and the Koman soldiers, and the folded 
hands, and the reed; and I went and sat down in the 
open porch upon a stone. At my feet was the small bay, 
with its white row of houses buried among the olive- 
trees; the water broke in a long, thin, white line of foam 
along the shore; and I leaned my elbows on my knees. I 
was tired, very tired; tired with a tiredness that seemed 
older than the heat of the day and the shining of the sun 
on the bricks of the Eoman road; and I lay my head upon 
my knees; I heard the breaking of the water on the rocks 
three hundred feet below, and the rustling of the wind 
among the olive-trees and the ruined arches, and then I 
fell asleep there. I had a dream. 

A man cried up to God, and God sent down an angel 
to help him; and the angel came back and said, ‘T can- 
not help that man.” 

God said, ‘‘How is it with him?” 

And the angel said, “He cries out continually that one 
has injured him; and he would forgive him and he can- 
not.” 

God said, “What have you done for him?” 

The angel said, “All— I took him by the hand, and 
I said, ‘See, when other men speak ill of that man do you 
speak well of him; secretly, in ways he shall not know, 
serve him; if you have anything you value share it with 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


349 


him, so, serving him, you will at last come to feel posses- 
sion in him, and you will forgive.’ And he said, ‘I will 
do it.’ Afterward, as I passed by in the dark of night, I 
heard one crying out, ‘I have done all. It helps noth- 
ing! My speaking well of him helps me nothing! If I 
share my heart’s blood with him, is the burning within 
me less? I cannot forgive; I cannot forgive! Oh, God, 
I cannot forgive!’ 

“I said to him, ‘See here, look back on all your past. 
See from your childhood all smallness, all indirectness 
that has been yours; look well at it, and in its light do 
you not see every man your brother? Are you so sinless 
you have right to hate?’ 

“He looked, and said, ‘Yes, you are right; I too have 
failed, and I forgive my fellow. Go, I am satisfied; I 
have forgiven;’ and he laid him down peacefully and 
folded his hands on his breast, and I thought it was well 
with him. But scarcely had my wings rustled and I 
turned to come up here when I heard one crying out on 
earth again, ‘I cannot forgive! I cannot forgive! Oh, 
God, God, I cannot forgive! It is better to die than to 
hate! I cannot forgive! I cannot forgive!’ And I went 
and stood outside his door in the dark, and I heard him 
cry, ‘I have not sinned so, not so! If I have torn my 
fellow’s flesh ever so little, I have kneeled down and 
kissed the wound with my mouth till it was healed. I 
have not willed that any soul should be lost through hate 
of me. If they have but fancied that I wronged them I 
have lain down on the ground before them that they 
might tread on me, and so, seeing my humiliation, for- 
give and not be lost through hating me; they have not 
cared that my soul should be lost; they have not willed 
to save me; they have not tried that I should forgive 
them!’ 

“I said to him ‘See here, be thou content; do not for- 


350 


TEE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


give; forget this soul and its injury; go on your way. In 
the next world perhaps ’ 

“He cried, ‘Go from me, you understand nothing! 
What is the next world to me! I am lost now, to-day. I 
cannot see the sunlight shine, the dust is in my throat, 
the sand is in my eyes! Go from me, you know nothing! 
Oh, once again before I die to see that the world is beau- 
tiful! Oh, God, God, I cannot live and not love. I 
cannot live and hate. Oh, God, God, God!’ So I left 
him crying out and came back here.” 

God said, “This man’s soul must be saved.” 

And the angel said “How?” 

God said, “Go down you, and save it.” 

The angel said, “What more shall I do?” 

Then God bent down and whispered in the angel’s ear, 
and the angel spread out its wings and went down to 
earth. 

And partly I woke, sitting there upon the broken 
stone, with my head on my knee; but I was too weary to 
rise. I heard the wind roam through the olive-trees and 
among the ruined arches, and then I slept again. 

The angel went down and found the man with the 
bitter heart and took him by the hand, and led him to a 
certain spot. 

Now the man wist not where it was the angel would 
take him or what he would show him there. And when 
they came the angel shaded tbe man’s eyes with his wing, 
and when he moved it, the man saw somewhat on the 
earth before them. For God had given it to that angel 
to unclothe a human soul; to take from it all those out- 
waTd attributes of form and color, and age, and sex 
whereby one man is known from among his fellows and is 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


351 


marked off from the rest, and the soul lay before them, 
bare, as a man turning his eye inward beholds himself. 

They saw its past, its childhood, the tiny life with the 
dew upon it; they saw its youth when the dew was melt- 
ing, and the creature raised its Liliputian mouth to drink 
from a cup too large for it, and they saw how the water 
spilled; they saw its hopes that were never realized; they 
saw its hours of intellectual blindness, men call sin; they 
saw its hours of all-radiating insight, which men call 
righteousness; they saw its hour of strength, when it 
leaped to its feet crying, ‘T am omnipotent;’^ its hour 
of weakness, when it fell to the earth and grasped dust 
only; they saw what it might have been, but never 
would be. 

The man bent forward. 

And the angel said, ‘‘What is it?” 

He answered, “It is 1 ! it is myself!” And he went 
forward as if he would have lain his heart against it; but 
the angel held him back and covered his eyes. 

Now God had given power to the angel further to un- 
clothe that soul, to take from it all those outward attri- 
butes of time and place and circumstances whereby the 
individual life is marked off from the life of the whole. 

Again the angel uncovered the man’s eyes, and he 
looked. He saw before him that which in its tiny 
drop reflects the whole universe; he saw that which 
marks within, itself the step of the furthest star, and 
tells how the crystal grows under ground where no eye 
has seen it; that which is where the germ in the egg 
stirs; which moves the outstretched Angers of the little 
new-born babe, and keeps the leaves of the trees point- 
ing upward; which moves where the jelly-flsh sail alone 
on the sunny seas, and is where the lichens form on the 
mountains’ rocks. 

And the man looked. 


352 


TEE BTOHY OE AN AFRICAN FARM. 


And the angel touched him. 

But the man bowed his head and shuddered. He 
whispered — is God!'* 

And the angel re-covered the man’s eyes. And when 
he uncovered them there was one walking from them a 
little way off — for the angel had re-clothed the soul in its 
outward form and vesture — and the man knew who it 
was. 

And the angel said, ‘^Do you know him?” 

And the man said, know him,” and he looked after 
the figure. 

And the angel said, ‘‘Have you forgiven him?” 

But the man said, ^‘How beautiful my brother is .'” 

And the angel looked into the man’s eyes, and he 
shaded his own face with his wing from the light. He 
laughed softly and went up to God. 

But the men were together on earth. 

I awoke. 

The blue, blue sky was over my head, and the waves 
wore breaking below on the shore. I walked through the 
little chapel> and I saw the Madonna in blue and red, 
and the Christ carrying his cross, and the Eoman sol- 
diers with the rod, and the Blessed Bambino with its 
broken face; and then I walked down the sloping road to 
the brick pathway. The olive-trees stood up on either 
side of the road, their black berries and pale-green leaves 
stood out against the sky; and the little ice-plants hung 
from the crevices in the stone wall. It seemed to me as 
if it must have rained while I was asleep. I thought I 
had never seen the heavens and the earth look so beauti- 
ful before. I walked down the road. The old, old, old 
tiredness was gone. 

Presently there came a peasant boy down the path 


TBE 8 T 0 H Y OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 353 

leading his ass; she had two large panniers fastened to 
her sides; and they went down the road before me. 

I have never seen him before; but I should have liked 
to walk by him and to have held his hand— only, he 
would not have known why. 

Alassio^ Italy. 


LIFE’S GIFTS. 

I SAW a woman sleeping. In her sleep she dreamed Life 
stood before her, and held in each hand a gift — in the 
one Love, in the other Freedom. And she said to the 
woman, ‘‘Choose!” . 

And the woman waited long: and she said, “Free- 
dom!” 

And Life said, “Thou hast well chosen. If thou hadst 
said, ‘Love,’ I would have given thee that thou didst ask 
for; and I would have gone from thee, and returned to 
thee no more. Now, the day will come when I shall re- 
turn. In that day I shall bear both gifts in one hand.” 

I heard the woman laugh in her sleep. 

LONDOlf. 


THE ARTIST’S SECRET. 

There was an artist once, and he painted a picture. 
Other artists had colors richer and rarer, and painted 
more notable pictures. He painted his with one color, 
there was a wonderful red glow on it; and the people 
went up and down, saying, “We like the picture, we like 
the glow.” 

The other artists came and said, “Where does he get his 
color from?” They asked him; and he smiled and said. 


354 


THE STOnr OF AN AFMICAN FARM. 


“I cannot tell you;” and worked on with his head bent 
low. 

And one went to the far East and bought costly pig- 
ments, and made a rare color and painted, hut after a 
time the picture faded. Another read in the old books, 
and made a color rich and rare, but when he had put it 
on the picture it was dead. 

But the artist painted on. Always the work got 
redder and redder, and the artist grew whiter and 
whiter. At last one day they found him dead before his 
picture, and they took him up to bury him. The other 
men looked about in all the pots and crucibles, but they 
found nothing they had not. 

And when they undressed him to put his grave-clothes 
on him, they found above his left breast the mark of a 
wound — it was an old, old wound, that must have been 
there all his life, for the edges were old and hardened; 
but Death, who seals all things, had drawn the edges to- 
gether, and closed it up. 

And they buried him. And still the people went 
about saying, ‘‘Where did he find his color from?” 

And it came to pass that after awhile the artist was 
forgotten — but the work lived. 

St. Leonards-ok-Sea. 


“I THOUGHT I STOOD.” 

I. 

I THOUGHT I stood in heaven before God’s throne, and 
God asked me what I had come for. I said I had come 
to arraign my brother, Man. 

God said, “What has be done?” 

I said, “He has taken my sister. Woman, and has 


THE STOR T OF AN AFRICAN F^A EM. 355 

stricken her, and wounded her, and thrust her out into 
the streets; she lies there prostrate. His hands are red 
with blood, /am here to arraign him; that the kingdom 
be taken from him, because he is not worthy, and given 
unto me. My hands are pure.’^ 

I showed them. 

God said, “Thy hands are pure. Lift up thy robe.” 

I raised it; my feet were red, blood-red, as if I had 
trodden in wine. 

God said, “How is this?” 

I said, “Dear Lord, the streets on earth are full of 
mire. If I should walk straight on in them my outer 
robe might be bespotted, you see how white it is! There- 
fore I pick my way.” 

God said, “0/i 

I was silent, and I let my robe fall. I wrapped my 
mantle about my head. I went out softly. I was afraid 
that the angels would see me. 

II. 

Once more I stood at the gate of heaven, I and 
another. We held fast by one another; we were very 
tired. We looked up at the great gates; the angels 
opened them, and we went in. The mud was on our 
garments. We walked across the marble floor, and up 
to the great throne. Then the angels divided us. Her, 
they set upon the top step, but me, upon the bottom; 
for, they said, “Last time this woman came here she left 
red footmarks on the floor; we had to wash them out 
with our tears. Let her not go up.” 

Then she, with whom I came, looked back, and 
stretched out her hand to me; and I went and stood be- 
side her. And the angels, they, the shining ones who 
never sinned and never suffered, walked by us to and fro 
and up and down; I think we should have felt a little 


36(y 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


lonely there if it had not been for one another, the angels 
were so bright. 

God asked me what I had come for; and I drew my 
sister forward a little that he might see her. 

God said, ‘‘How is it you are here together to-day?’’ 

I said, “She was upon the ground in the street, and 
they passed over her; I lay down by her, and she put her 
arms around my neck, and so I lifted her, and we two 
rose together.” 

God said, “Whom are you now come to accuse before 
me?” 

I said, “We are come to accuse no man.” 

And God bent, and said, “My children — what is it that 
ye seek?” 

And she beside me drew my hand that I should speak 
for both. 

I said, “We have come to ask that thou shouldst speak 
to Man, our brother, and give us a message for him that 
he might understand, and that he might ” 

God said, “Go, take the message down to him!” 

I said, “But what is the message?” 

God said, “Upon your hearts it is written; take it 
down to him.” 

And we turned to go; the angels went with us to the 
door. They looked at us. 

And one said — “Ai! but their dresses are beautiful!” 

And the other said, “I thought it was mire when they 
came in, but see, it is all golden!” 

But another said, “Hush, it is the light from their 
faces!” 

And we went down to him. 

Alassio, Italy. 


THE STORY OF AH AFRICAN FARM. 


357 


THE SUNLIGHT LAY ACEOSS MY BED. 

In the dark one night I lay upon my bed. I heard 
the policeman’s feet beat on the pavement; I heard the 
wheels of carriages roll home from houses of entertain- 
ment; I heard a woman’s laugh below my window — and 
then I fell asleep. And in the dark I dreamed a dream. 
I dreamed God took my soul to hell. 

Hell was a fair place; the water of the lake was blue. 

I said to God, ‘H like this place.” 

God said, “Ay, dost thou!” 

Birds sang, turf came to the water-edge, and trees grew 
from it. Away off among the trees I saw beautiful 
women walking. Their clothes were of many delicate 
colors and clung to them, and they were tall and grace- 
ful, and had yellow hair. Their robes trailed over the 
grass. They glided in and out among the trees, and over 
their heads hung yellow fruit like large pears of melted 
gold. 

I said, “Tt is very fair; I would go up and taste 
the ” 

God said, “Wait.” 

And after awhile I noticed a very fair woman pass; she 
looked this way and that, and drew down a branch, and 
it seemed she kissed the fruit upon it softly, and went on 
her way, and her dress made no rustle as she passed over 
the grass. And when I saw her no more, from among 
the stems came another woman fair as she had been, in a 
delicate tinted robe; she looked this way and that. When 
she saw no one there she drew down the fruit, and when 
she had looked over it to find a place, she put her mouth 
to it softly, and went away. And I saw other and other 
women come, making no noise, and they glided away 
also over the grass. 

And I said to God, “What are they doing?” 


358 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


God said, “They are poisoning/’ 

And I said, “How?” 

God said, “They touch it with their lips; when they 
have made a tiny wound in it with their fore-teeth they 
set in that which is under their tongues; they close it 
with their lip — that no man may see the place, and 
pass on.” 

I said to God, “Why do they do it?” 

God said, “That another may not eat.” 

I said to God, “But if they poison all, then none dare 
eat; what do they gain?” 

God said, “Nothing.” 

I said, “Are they not afraid they themselves may bite 
wehre another has bitten?” 

God said, “They are afraid. In hell all men fear.” 

He called me further. And the water of the lake 
seemed less blue. 

Then, to the right among the trees were men working. 
And I said to God, “I should like to go and work with 
them. Hell must be a very fruitful place, the grass is so 
green.” 

God said, “Nothing grows in the garden they are mak- 
ing.” 

We stood looking; and I saw them working among the 
bushes, digging holes, but in them they set nothing; and 
when they had covered them with sticks and earth each 
went away off and sat behind the bushes watching; and 1 
noticed that as each walked he set his foot down care- 
fully, looking where he trod. I said to God, “What are 
they doing?” 

God said, “Making pitfalls into which their fellows 
may sink.” 

I said to God, “Why do they do it?” 

God said, “Because each thinks that when his brother 
falls he will rise.” 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


359 


I said to God, ‘‘How will he rise?’^ 

God said, “He will not rise.’^ 

And I saw their eyes gleam from behind the bushes. 

I said to God, “Are these men sane?’’ 

God said, “They are not sane; there is no sane man in 
hell.” 

And he told me to come further. 

And I looked where I trod. 

And we came where hell opened into a plain, and a 
great house stood there. Marble pillars upheld the roof, 
and white marble steps led up to it. The wind of heaven 
blew through it. Only at the back hung a thick curtain. 
Fair men and women there feasted at long tables. They 
danced, and I saw the robes of women flutter in the air 
and heard the laugh of strong men. What they feasted 
with was wine; they drew it from large jars which stood 
somewhat in the background, and I saw the wine sparkle 
as they drew it. 

And I said to God, “I should like to go up and drink.” 
And God said, “Wait.” And I saw men coming into the 
banquet house; they came in from the back and lifted 
the corner of the curtain at the sides and crept in 
quickly; and they let the curtain fall behind them; they 
bore great jars they could hardly carry. And the men 
and women crowded round them, and the newcomers 
opened, their jars and gave them of the wine to drink; 
and I saw that the women drank even more greedily than 
the men. And when others had well drunken they set 
the jars among the old ones beside the wall, and took 
their places at the table. And I saw that some of the 
jars were very old and mildewed and dusty, but others 
had still drops of new must on them and shone from the 
furnace. 

And I said to God, “What is that?” For amid the 
sound of the singing, and over the dancing of feet, and 
over the laughing across the wine-cups, I heard a cry. 


360 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


And God said, ‘‘Stand a way 

And he took me where I saw both sides of the curtain. 
Behind the house was the wine-press where the wine was 
made. I saw the grapes crushed, and I heard them cry. 
I said, “Do not they on the other side hear it?’’ 

God said, “The curtain is thick; they are feasting.” 

And I said, “But the men who came in last. They 
saw?” 

God said, “They let the curtain fall behind them — and 
they forgot!” 

I said, “How came they by their jars of wine?” 

God said, “In the treading of the press these are they 
who came to the top; they have climbed out over the 
edge and filled their jars from below, and have gone into 
the house.” 

And I said, “And if they had fallen as they 
climbed ” 

God said, “They had been wine.” 

I stood a way off watching in the sunshine, and I 
shivered. 

God lay in the sunshine watching too. 

Then there rose one among the feasters, who said, 
“My brethren, let us pray!” 

And all the men and women rose: and strong men 
bowed their heads, and mothers folded their little chil- 
dren’s hands together, and turned their faces upward, to 
the roof. And he who first had risen stood at the table 
head and stretched out both his hands, and his beard 
was long and white, and his sleeves and his beard had 
been dipped in wine; and because the sleeves were wide 
and full they held much wine, and it dropped down upon 
the fioor. 

And he cried, “My brothers and my sisters, let us 
pray.” 

And all the men and women answered, “Let us pray.” 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


361 


He cried, ‘‘For this fair banquet-house we thank thee, 
Lord.’^ 

And all the men and women said, “We thank thee. 
Lord.” 

“Thine is this house, dear Lord.” 

“Thine is this house.” 

“For us hast thou made it.’' ' 

“For us.” 

“Oh, fill our jars with wine, dear Lord.” 

“Our jars with wine.” 

“Give peace and plenty in our time, dear Lord.” 

“Peace and plenty in our time — ” I said to God, 
“Whom is it they are talking to?” God said, “Do 1 
know whom they speak of?” And I saw they were look- 
ing up at the roof; but out in the sunshine, God lay. 

“ dear Lord!” 

“Dear Lord.” 

“Our children’s children. Lord, shall rise and call thee 
blessed.” 

“Our children’s children. Lord — ” .1 said to God. 
“The grapes are crying!” God said, “Still! /hear them 
— “shall call thee blessed.” 

“Shall call thee blessed.” 

“Pour forth more wine upon us. Lord.” 

“More wine.” 

“More wine.” 

“More wine!” 

“Wine! !” 

“Wine! !” 

“Wine! ! I” 

“Dear Lord!” 

Then men and women sat down and the feast went on. 
And mothers poured out wine and fed their little children 
with it, and men held up the cup to women’s lips and 
cried, “Beloved! drink,” and women filled their lovers’ 
flagons and held them up; and yet the feast went on. 


362 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


And after awhile I looked, and I saw the curtain that 
hung behind the house moving. 

I said to God, ^‘Is it a wind?’' 

God said, “A wind.” 

And it seemed to me that against the curtain I saw 
pressed the forms of men and women. And after awhile 
the feasters saw it move, and they whispered, one to 
another. Then some rose and gathered the most worn- 
out cups, and into them they put what was left at the 
bottom of other vessels. Mothers whispered to their 
children, “Do not drink all, save a little drop when you 
have drunk.” And when they had collected all the 
dregs they slipped the cups out under the bottom of the 
curtain without lifting it. After awhile the curtain left 
off moving. 

I said to God, “How is it so quiet?” 

He said, “They have gone away to drink it.” 

I said, ^^TJiey drink it — their own!” 

God said, “It comes from this side of the curtain, and 
they are very thirsty.” 

Then the feast went on, and after awhile I saw a small, 
white hand slipped in below the curtain’s edge along the 
floor; and it motioned toward the wine jars. 

And I said to God, “Why is that hand so blood- 
less?” 

And God said, “It is a wine-pressed hand.” 

And men saw it and started to their feet; and women 
cried, and ran to the great wine jars, and threw their 
arms around them, and cried, “Ours, our own, our be- 
loved!” and twined their long hair about them. 

I said to God, “Why are they frightened of that one 
small hand?” 

God answered, “Because it is so white.” 

And men ran in a great company toward the curtain, 
and struggled there. I heard them strike upon the floor. 


THE STOUT OF AH AFEICAH FAEM. 


363 


And when they moved away the curtain hung smooth 
and still; and there was a small stain upon the floor. 

I said to God, “Why do they not wash it out?’’ 

God said, “They cannot.” 

And they took small stones and put them down along 
the edge of the curtain to keep it down. Then the men 
and women sat down again at the tables. 

And I said to God, “Will those stones keep it down?” 

God said, “What think you?” 

I said, “If the wind blew ” 

God said, “If the wind blew?” 

And the feast went on. 

And suddenly I cried to God, “If one should rise 
among them, even of themselves, and start up from the 
table and should cast away his cup, and cry, ‘My brothers 
and sisters, stay! what is it that we drink?’ — and with 
his sword should cut in two the curtain, and holding 
wide the fragments, cry, ‘Brothers, sisters, see! it is not 
wine, not wine! not wine! My brothers, oh, my sisters!’ 
— and he should overturn the ” 

God said, “Be still! — see there.” 

I looked: before the banquet-house, among the grass, 
I saw a row of mounds, flowers covered them, and gilded 
marble stood at their heads. I asked God what they 
were. 

He answered, “They are the graves of those who rose 
up at the feast and cried.” 

And I asked God how they came there. 

He said, “The men of the banquet-house rose and cast 
them down backward.” 

I said, “Who buried them?” 

God said, “The men who cast them down.” 

I said, “How came it that they threw them down, and 
then set marble over them?” 

God said, “Because the bones cried out, they covered 
them.” 


364 


THE STORY OF AH AFMICAH FARM. 


And among the grass and weeds I saw an unburied 
body lying; and I ^sked God why it was. 

God said, ‘^Because it was thrown down only yester- 
day. In a little while, when the flesh shall have fallen 
from its hones, they will bury it also, and plant flowers 
over it.’^ 

And still the feast went on. 

Men and women sat at the tables quaffing great bowls. 
Some rose, and threw their arms about each other, and 
danced and sang. They pledged each other in the wine, 
and kissed each other’s blood-red lips. 

Higher and higher grew the revels. 

Men, when they had drunk till they could no longer, 
threw what was left in their glasses up to the roof, and 
let it fall back in cascades. Women dyed their children’s 
garments in the wine, and fed them on it till their tiny 
mouths were red. Sometimes, as the dancers whirled, 
they overturned a vessel, and their garments were bespat- 
tered. Children sat upon the floor with great bowls of 
wine, and swam rose leaves on it, for boats. They put 
their hands in the wine and blew large red bubbles. 

And higher and higher grew the revels, and wilder the 
dancing, and louder and louder the singing. But here 
and there among the revelers were those who did not 
revel. I saw that at the tables, here and there, were men 
who sat with their elbows on the board and hands shad- 
ing their eyes; they looked into the wine-cup beneath 
them, and did not drink. And when one touched them 
lightly on the shoulder, bidding them to rise and dance 
and sing, they started, and they looked down, and sat 
there watching the wine in the cup, but they did not 
move. 

And here and there I saw a woman sit apart. The 
others danced and sang and fed their children, but she 
sat silent with her head aside as though she listened. 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


365 


Her little children plucked her gown; she did not see 
them; she was listening to some sound, but she did not 
stir. 

The revels grew higher. Men drank till they could 
drink no longer, and lay their heads upon the table 
sleeping heavily. Women who could dance no more 
leaned back on the benches with their heads against their 
lovers’ shoulders. Little children, sick with wine, lay 
down upon the edges of their mothers’ robes. Sometimes 
a man rose suddenly and as he staggered struck the tables 
and overthrew the benches; some leaned upon the balus- 
trades sick unto death. Here and there one rose who 
staggered to the wine jars and lay down beside them. 
He turned the wine tap, but sleep overcame him as he 
lay there, and the wine ran out. 

Slowly the thin, red stream ran across the white 
marbled floor; it reached the stone steps; slowly, slowly, 
slowly it trickled down, from step to step, from step to 
step; then it sank into the earth. A thin white smoke 
rose up from it. 

I was silent; I could not breathe; but God called me 
to come further. 

And after I had traveled for awhile I came where on 
seven hills lay the ruins of a mighty banquet-house 
larger and stronger than the one which I had seen stand- 
ing. 

I said to God, ‘‘What did the men who built it here?” 

God said, “They feasted.” 

I said, “On what?” 

God said, “On wine.” 

And I looked; and it seemed to me that behind the 
ruins lay still a large circular hollow within the earth 
where a foot of the wine-press had stood. 

I said to God, “How came it that this large house 
fell?” 


366 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


God said, ‘‘Because the earth was sodden.’’ 

He called me to come further. 

And at last we came upon a hill where blue waters 
played, and white marble lay upon the earth. I said to 
God, “What was here once?” 

God said, “A pleasure house.” 

I looked, and at my feet great pillars lay. I cried 
aloud for joy to God, “The marble blossoms!” 

God said “Ay, ’twas a fairy house. There has not been 
one like to it, nor ever shall be. The pillars and the 
porticoes blossomed; and the wine-cups were as gathered 
flowers: on this side all the curtain was broidered with 
fair designs, the stitching was of gold.” 

I said to God, “How came it that it fell?” 

God said, “On the side of the wine-press it was 
dark.” 

And as we traveled, we came where lay a mighty ridge of 
sand, and a dark river ran there; and there rose two vast 
mounds. 

I said to God, “They are very mighty.” 

God said, “Ay, exceeding great.” 

And I listened. 

God asked me what I was listening to. 

And I said, “A sound of weeping, and I hear the 
sound of strokes, but I cannot tell whence it comes.” 

God said, “It is the echo of the wine-press lingering 
still among the coping-stones upon the mounds. A 
banquet-house stood here.” 

And he called me to come further. 

Upon a barren hillside, where the soil was arid, God 
called me to stand still. And I looked around. 

God said, “There was a f easting-house here once upon 
a time.” 

I said to God, “I see no mark of any!” 

God said, “There was not left one stone upon another 


THE STORY OP AN AFRICAN FARM. 367 

that has not been thrown down. And I looked round; 
and on the hillside was a lonely grave. 

I said to God, “What lies there 

He said, “A vine truss, bruised in the wine-press!” 

And at the head of the grave stood a cross, and on its 
foot lay a crown of thorns. 

And as I turned to go, I looked backward. The wine- 
press and the banquet-house were gone; but the grave 
yet stood. 

And when I came to the edge of a long ridge there 
opened out before me a wide plain of sand. And when I 
looked downward I saw great stones lie shattered; and 
the desert sand had half-covered them over. 

I said to God, “There is writing on them, but I can- 
not read it.” 

And God blew aside the desert sand, and I read the 
writing: “Weighed in the balance, and found — ” but the 
last word was wanting. 

And I said to God, “It was a banquet-house?” 

God said, “Ay, a banquet-house.” 

I said, “There was a wine-press here?” 

God said, “There was a wine-press.” 

I asked no further question. I was very weary; I 
shaded my eyes with my hand, and looked through the 
pink evening light. 

Far off, across the sand, I saw two figures standing. 
With wings unfolded high above their heads, and stern 
faces set, neither man nor beast, they looked out across 
the desert sand, watching, watching, watching! I did 
not ask God what they were, for I knew what the answer 
would be. 

And, further and yet further, in the evening light, I 
looked with my shaded eyes. 

Far off where the sands were thick and heavy, I saw a 
solitary pillar standing; the crown had fallen, and the 


368 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


sand had buried it. On the broken pillar sat a gray owl 
of the desert, with folded wings; and in the evening 
light I saw the desert fox creep past it, trailing his brush 
across the sand. 

Further, yet further, as I looked across the desert, I 
saw the sand gathered into heaps as though it covered 
something. 

I cried to God, ‘‘Oh, I am so weary.’’ 

God said, “You have seen only one-half of hell.” 

I said, “I cannot see more, I am afraid of hell. In my 
own narrow little path I dare not walk, because I think 
that one has dug a pitfall for me; and if I put my hand 
to take a fruit I draw it back again because I think it has 
been kissed already. If I look out across the plains, the 
mounds are burial heaps; and when I pass among the 
stones I hear them crying aloud. When I see men danc- 
ing I hear the time beaten in with sobs; and their wine 
is living! Oh, I cannot bear hell!” 

God said, “Where will you go?” 

I said “To the earth from which I came; it was better 
there.” 

And God laughed at me; and I wondered why he 
laughed. 

God said, “Come, and I will show you heaven.” 

And partly I awoke. It was still and dark; the sound 
of the carriages had died in the street; the woman who 
laughed was gone; and the policeman’s tread was heard 
no more. In the dark it seemed as if a great hand lay 
upon my heart, and crushed it. I tried to breathe and 
tossed from side to side; and then again I fell asleep, and 
dreamed. 

God took me to the edge of that world. It ended. I 
looked down. The gulf, it seemed to me, was fathom- 
less; and then I saw two bridges crossing it that both 
sloped upward. 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


369 


I said to God, there no other way by which men 
cross it?^’ 

God said, ‘‘One; it rises far from here and slopes 
straight upward/^ 

I asked God what the bridges’ names were. 

God said, “What matter for the names? Call them 
the Good, the True, the Beautiful, if you will — you will 
yet not understand them.” 

I asked God how it was I could not see the third. 

God said, “It is seen only by those who climb it.” 

I said, “Do they all lead to one heaven?” 

God said, “All heaven is one: nevertheless some parts 
are higher than others; those who reach the higher may 
always go down to rest in the lower; but those in the lower 
may not have strength to climb to the higher; neverthe- 
less the light is all one.” 

And I saw over the bridge nearest me, which was wider 
than the other, countless footmarks go. I asked God 
why so many went over it. 

God said, “It slopes less deeply, and leads to the first 
heaven.” 

And I saw that some of the footmarks were of feet re- 
turning. I asked God how it was. 

He said, “No man who has once entered heaven ever 
leaves it; but some, when they have gone halfway, turn 
back, because they are afraid there is no land beyond.” 

I said, “Has none ever returned?” 

God said, “No; once in heaven always in heaven.” 

And God took me over. And when we came to one of 
the great doors — for heaven has more doors than one, 
and they are all open — the posts rose up so high on either 
side I could not see the top, nor indeed if there were any. 

And it seemed to me so wide that all hell could go in 
through it. 

I said to God, “Which is the larger, heaven or hell?” 


370 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM, 


God said, ‘‘Hell is as wide, but heaven is deeper. All 
hell could be engulfed in heaven, but all heaven could 
not be engulfed in hell.'” 

And we entered. It was a still great land. The moun- 
tains rose on every hand, and there was a pale clear 
light; and I saw it came from the rocks and stones. I 
asked God how it was. 

But God did not answer me. 

I looked and wondered, for I had thought heaven 
would be otherwise. And after awhile it began to grow 
brighter, as if the day were breaking, and I asked God if 
the sun were not going to rise. 

God said, “No; we are coming to where the people 
are.” 

And as we went on it grew brighter and brighter, till 
it was burning day; and on the rocks were flowers bloom- 
ing, and trees blossomed at the roadside; and streams of 
water ran everywhere, and I heard the birds singing; I 
asked God where they were. 

God said, “It is the people calling to one another.” 

And when we came nearer I saw them walking, and 
they shone as they walked. I asked God how it was they 
wore no covering. 

God said, “Because all their body gives the light; they 
dare not cover any part.” 

And I asked God what they were doing. 

God said, “Shining on the plants, that they may grow. ” 

And I saw that some were working in companies, and 
some alone, but most were in twos, sometimes two men 
and sometimes two women; but generally there was one 
man and one woman; and I asked God how it was. 

God said, “When one man and one woman shine to- 
gether, it makes the most perfect light. Many plants 
need that for their growing. Nevertheless, there are 
more kinds of plants in heaven than one, and they need 
many kinds of light.” 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM . ' 


371 


And one from among the people came running toward 
me; and when he came near it seemed to me that he and 
I had played together when we were little children, and 
that we had been born on the same day. And I told God 
what I felt. God said, ‘‘All men feel so in heaven when 
another comes toward them.’’ 

And he who ran toward me held my hand, and led me 
through the bright lights. And when we came among 
the trees he sang aloud, and his companion answered, 
and it was a woman, and he showed me to her. She said, 
“He must have water;” and she took some in her hands, 
and fed me (I had been afraid to drink of the water in 
hell), and they gathered fruit for me, and gave it me to 
eat. They said, “We shone long to make it ripen,” and 
they laughed together as they saw me eat it. 

The man said, “He is very weary; he must sleep” (for 
I had not dared to sleep in hell), and he laid my head on 
his companion’s knee and spread her hair out over me. 
I slept, and all the while in my sleep I thought I heard 
the birds calling across me. And when I woke it was 
like early morning, with the dew on everything. 

And the man took my hand and led me to a hidden 
spot among the rocks. The ground was very hard, but 
out of it were sprouting tiny plants, and there was a 
little stream running. He said, “This is a garden we are 
making, no one else knows of it. We shine here every 
day; see, the ground has cracked with our shining, and 
this little stream is bursting out. See, the flowers are 
growing.” 

And he climbed on the rocks and picked from above 
two little flowers with dew on them, and gave them to 
me. And I took one in each hand; my hands shone as I 
held them. He said, “This garden is for all when it is 
finished.” And he went away to his companions, and I 
went out into the great pathway. 


372 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


And as I walked in the light I heard a loud sound of 
much singing. And when I came nearer I saw one with 
closed eyes, singing, and his fellows were standing round 
him; and the light on the closed eyes was brighter than 
anything I had seen in heaven. I asked one who it was. 
And he said, “Hush! Our singing bird.’^ 

And I asked why the eyes shone so. 

And he said, “They cannot see, and we have kissed 
them till they shone so.’^ 

And the people gathered closer round him. 

And when I went a little further I saw a crowd cross- 
ing among the trees of light with great laughter. When 
they came close I saw they carried one without hands or 
feet. And a light came from the maimed limbs so bright 
that I could hot look at them. 

And I said to one, “What is it?” 

He answered, “This is our brother who once fell and 
lost his hands and feet, and since then he cannot help 
himself; hut we have touched the maimed stumps so 
often that now they shine brighter than anything in 
heaven. We pass him on that he may shine on things 
that need much heat. No one is allowed to keep him 
long, he belongs to all;” and they went on among the 
trees. 

I said to God, “This is a strange land. I had thought 
blindness and maimedness were great evils. Here men 
make them to a rejoicing.” 

God said, “Didst thou then think that love had need 
of eyes and hands!” 

And I walked down the shining way with palms on 
either hand. I said to God, “Ever since I was a little 
child and sat alone and cried, I have dreamed of this 
land, and now I will not go away again. I will stay here 
and shine.” And I began to take oif my garments, that 
I might shine as others in that land; but when I looked 


THE STOUT OF AN AFUIGAN FAUM, 373 

down I saw my body gave no light. I said to God, ‘^How 
is it?’^ 

God said, ‘‘Is there no dark blood in your heart; is it 
bitter against none?’’ 

And I said “Yes — and I thought — “Now is the 
time when I will tell God, that which I have been, mean- 
ing to tell him all along, how badly my fellow-men have 
treated me. How they have misunderstood me. How I 
have intended to he magnanimous and generous to them, 
and they — ” And I began to tell God; but when I 
looked down all the flowers were withering under my 
breath, and I was silent. 

And God called me to come up higher, and I gathered 
my mantle about me and followed him. 

And the rocks grew higher and steeper on every side; 
and we came at last to a place where a great mountain 
rose, whose top was lost in the clouds. And on its side I 
saw men working; and they picked at the earth with 
huge picks; and I saw that they labored mightily. And 
some labored in companies, but most labored singly. 
And I saw the drops of sweat fall from their foreheads, 
and the muscles of their arms stand out with labor. And 
I said, “I had not thought in heaven to see men labor 
so!” And I thought of the garden where men sang and 
loved, and I wondered that any should choose to labor on 
that bare mountain-side. And I saw upon the foreheads 
of the men as they worked a light, and the drops which 
fell from them as they worked had light. 

And I asked God what they were seeking for. 

And God touched my eyes, and I saw that what they 
found were small stones, which had been too bright for 
me to see before; and I saw that the light of the stones 
and the light on the men’s foreheads was the same. And 
I saw that when one found a stone he passed it on to his 
fellow,' and he to another, and he to another. No man 


374 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM, 


kept the stone he found. And at times they gathered in 
great company about when a large stone was found, and 
raised a great shout so that the sky rang; then they 
worked on again. 

And I asked God what they did with the stones they 
found at last. Then God touched my eyes again to make 
them stronger; and I looked, and at my very feet was a 
mighty crown. The light streamed out from it. 

God said, “Each stone as they find it is set here.” 

And the crown was wrought according to a marvelous 
pattern; one pattern ran through all, yet each part was 
different. 

I said to God, “How does each man know where to set 
his stone, so that the pattern is worked out?” 

God said, “Because in the light his forehead sheds each 
man sees faintly outlined that full crown.” 

And I said, “Bui how is it that each stone is joined 
along its edges to its fellows, so that there is no seam 
anywhere?” 

God said, “The stones are alive; they grow.” 

And I said, “But what does each man gain by his work- 
ing?” 

God says, “He sees his outline filled.” 

I said, “But those stones which are last set cover those 
which were first; and those will again be covered by 
those which come later.” 

God said, “They are covered, but not hid. The light 
is the light of all. Without the first, no last.” 

And I said to God, “When will this crown be ended?” 

And God said, “Look up!” 

I looked up; and I saw the mountain tower above me, 
but its summit I could not see; it was lost in the clouds. 

God said no more. 

And I looked at the crown; then a longing seized me. 
Like the passion of a mother for the child whom death 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


375 


has taken; like the yearning of a friend for the friend 
whom life has buried; like the hunger of dying eyes for 
a life that is slipping; like the thirst of a soul for love at 
its first spring waking, so, but fiercer was the longing in 
me. 

I cried to God, “I too will work here; I too will set 
stones in the wonderful pattern; it shall grow beneath 
my hand. And if it be that, laboring here for years, I 
should not find one stone, at least I will be with the men 
that labor here. I shall hear their shout of joy when 
each stone is found; I shall join in their triumph, I shall 
shout among them; I shall see the crown grow.’’ So 
great was my longing as I looked at the crown, I thought 
a faint light fell from my forehead also. 

God said, “Do you not hear the singing in the gar- 
dens?” 

I said, “No, I hear nothing; I see only the crown.” 
And I was dumb with longing; I forgot all the flowers of 
the lower heaven and the singing there. And I ran for- 
ward, and threw my mantle on the earth and bent to 
seize one of the mighty tools which lay there. I could 
not lift it from the earth. 

God said, “Where hast thou earned the strength to 
raise it? Take up thy mantle.” 

And I took up my mantle and followed where God 
called me; but I looked back, and I saw the crown burn- 
ing, my crown that I had loved. 

Higher and higher we climbed, and the air grew 
thinner. Not a tree or plant was on the bare rocks, and 
the stillness was unbroken. My breath came hard and 
quick, and the blood .crept within my finger-tips. I said 
to God, “Is this heaven?” 

God said, “Yes; it is the highest.” 

And still we climbed. I said to God, “I cannot 
breathe so high.” 


376 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


God said, ‘‘Because the air is pure?’^ 

And my head grew dizzy, and as I climbed the blood 
burst from my finger-tips. 

Then we came out upon a lonely mountain-top. 

No living being moved there; but far off on a solitary 
peak I saw a lonely figure standing. Whether it were 
man or woman I could not tell; for partly it seemed the 
figure of a woman, but its limbs were the mighty limbs 
of a man. I asked God whether it was man or woman. 

God said, “In the least heaven sex reigns supreme; in 
the higher it is not noticed; but in the highest it does 
not exist. 

And I saw the figure bend over its work, and labor 
mightily, but what it labored at I could not see. 

I said to God, “How came it here?” 

God said, “By a bloody stair. Step by step it mounted 
from the lowest hell, and day by day as hell grew further 
and heaven no nearer, it hung alone between two worlds. 
Hour by hour in that bitter struggle its limbs grew 
larger, till there fell from it rag by rag the garments 
which it started with. Drops fell from its eyes as it 
strained them; each step it climbed was wet with blood. 
Then it came out here.” 

And I thought of the garden where men sang with 
their arms around one another, and the mountain-side 
where they worked in company. And I shuddered. 

And I said, “Is it not terribly alone here?” 

God said, “It is never alone!” 

I said, “What has it for all its labor? I see nothing 
return to it.” 

Then God touched my eyes, and I saw stretched out 
beneath us the plains of heaven and hell, and all that 
was within them. 

God said, “From that lone height on which he stands, 
all things are open. To him is clear the shining in the 


THE STORY OF AH AFRICAH FARM, 


377 


garden, he sees the flower break forth and the streams 
sparkle; no shout is raised upon the mountain-side but 
his ear may hear it. He sees the crown grow and the 
light shoot from it. All hell is open to him. He sees the 
paths mount upward. To him, hell is the seed-ground 
from which heaven springs. He sees the sap ascending.’^ 

And I saw the flgure bend over its work, and the light 
from its face fell upon it. 

And I said to God, “What is it making?^’ 

And God said, “Music!’’ 

And he touched my ears, and I heard it. 

And after a long while I whispered to God, “This is 
heaven.” 

And God asked me why I was crying. But I could not 
answer for joy. 

And the face turned from its work, and the light fell 
upon me. Then it grew so bright I could not see things 
separately; and which were God, or the man, or I, I 
could not tell; we were all blended. I cried to God, 
“Where are you?” but there was no answer, only music 
and light. 

Afterward when it had grown so dark again that I 
could see things separately, I found that I was standing 
there wrapped tight in my little old, brown, earthly 
cloak, and God and the man were separated from each 
other, and from me. 

I did not dare say I would go and make music beside 
the man. I knew I could not reach even to his knee, 
nor move the instrument he played. But I thought I 
would stand there on my little peak and sing an accom- 
paniment to that great music. And I tried; but my 
voice failed. It piped and quavered. I could not sing 
that tune. I was silent. 

Then God pointed to me, that I should go out of 
heaven. 


378 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


And I cried to God, ‘‘Oh, let me stay here! If indeed 
it be, as I know it is, that I am not great enough to sing 
upon the mountain, nor strong enough to labor on its 
side, nor bright enough to shine and love within the 
garden, at least let me go down to the great gateway; 
humbly I will kneel there sweeping; and as the saved 
pass in I will see the light upon their faces. I shall hear 
the singing in the garden, and the shout upon the hill- 
side ’’ 

God said, “It may not be;” he pointed. 

And I cried, “If I may not stay in heaven, then let me 
go down to hell, and I will grasp the hands of men and 
women there; and slowly, holding one another’s hands, 
we will work our way upward.” 

' Still God pointed. 

And I threw myself upon the earth and cried, “Earth 
is so small, so mean! It is not meet a soul should see 
heaven and be cast out again!” 

And God laid his hand on me, and said, “Go back to 
earth: that which you seek is there.** 

I awoke: it was morning. The silence and darkness 
of the night were gone. Through my narrow attic 
window I saw the light of another day. I closed my eyes 
and turned toward the wall: I could not look upon the 
dull gray world. 

In the streets below, men and women streamed past by 
hundreds; I heard the beat of their feet on the pave- 
ment. Men on their way to business; servants on er- 
rands; boys hurrying to school; weary professors pack.g 
slowly the old street; prostitutes, men and women, 
dragging their feet wearily after last night’s debauch; 
artists with quick, impatient footsteps; tradesmen for 
orders; children to seek for bread. I heard the stream 
beat by. And at the alley’s mouth, at the street corner. 


THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. 


379 


a broken barrel-organ was playing; sometimes it quavered 
and almost stopped, then went on again, like a broken 
human voice. 

I listened: my heart scarcely moved; it was as cold as 
lead. I could not bear the long day before me; and I 
tried to sleep again; yet still I heard the feet upon the 
pavement. And suddenly I heard them cry loud as they 
beat, “We are seeking! — we are seeking! — we are seek- 
ing!” and the broken barrel-organ at the street corner 
sobbed, “The Beautiful! — the Beautiful! — the Beauti- 
ful!” And my heart, which had been dead, cried out 
with every throb, “Love! — Truth! — the Beautiful! — the 
Beautiful!” It was the music I had heard in heaven 
that I could not sing there. 

And fully I awoke. 

Upon the faded quilt, across my bed a long yellow 
streak of pale London sunlight was lying. It fell 
through my narrow attic window. 

I laughed. I rose. 

I was glad the long day was before me. 

Paris and London. 






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A LIST OF BURT’S HOME LIBRARY. 


Comprising three hundred and ten titles of stand- 
ard works, embracing fiction, essays, poetry, history, 
travel, etc., selected from the world’s best literature, 
written by authors of world-wide reputation. Printed 
from large type, on good paper, and bound in hand- 
some cloth binding, gilt tops, uniform with this vol- 
ume. Price, 7 6 cents per copy. 

Abbe Constantin. By Ludovic Halevy. 

Adam Bede. By George Eliot. 

.Slsop’s Fables. 

Alhambra, The. By Washiugcon Leving. 

Alice Lorraine. By R. D. Blackmore. 

All Sorts and Conditions of Men. By Besant 
and Rice. 

Andersen’s Fairy Tales. 



Arabian Nights Entertainments. 

Ardath. By Marie Corelli. 

Armadale. By Wilkie Collins. 

Armorel of Lyonesso. By Walter 
Besant. 

Around the World in the Yacht 
Sunbeam. By Mrs. Brassey. 

Arundel Motto, The. By Mary 
Cecil Hs<y* 

Attic Philosopher, By Emile Sou- 
vestre 

Auld Licht Idylls. By James M. 
Barrie, 

Aunt Diana. By Rosa N. Carey. 

Aurelian. By William Ware. 

Autobiography of Benjac^'ln 
Franklin. 

Averil. By Rosa N. Carey. 

Bacon’s Essays. By Francis Bacon. 

Barbara Heathcote’s Trial. By 
Rosa N. Carey. 

Barnaby Budge . By Chas. Dickens. 


Cast Tip by the Sea. By Sir Samuil 
Baker. 

Caxtons, The, By Bulwer-Lytton. 

Chandos. By “Ouida.” 

Character. By Samuel Smiles. 

Charles Auchester. By E. Bergw- 

Charles O’Malley. By Chas. Lever. 

Children of the Abbey, By Regina 
Maria Roche. 

Children of Qibeon. By Walter 

Besant. 

Child’s History of England. By 

Charles Dickens. 

Christmas Stories. By Charles 
Dickens. 

Clara Vaughan. By R. D. Black- 
more. 

Cloister and the Hearth. By Chas. 
Reade. 

Confessions of an Opium-Eater. 

By T. de Quincey. 

Consuelo. By George Sand. 

Corinne. By Madame de Stael. 


Berber, The. By W. S. Mayo. 

Betrothed, The. By Alessandro 
Manzoni. 

Bleak House. By Chades Dickens. 


Countess Gisela, The. By E. Mar- 
litt. 

Countess of Rudolstadt. By Geo. 

Sand. 

Cousin F ons. By Honore de Balzac. 


Bondman, The. By Hall Caine. 


Cradock Nowell. By R. D. Black- 

more. 

Bride of the Nile, The. By George Cranford. By Mrs. Gaskell. 

Et)©rs 

Burgomaster’s Wife, The. By Cripps the Carrier. By R. D. Black 
George Ebers. ' more. 

By Order of the King. By Victor Crown of Wild Ohve, The. By 
Hugo. I John Ruskin. 

California and Oregon Trail. By Daniel Deronda. By George Eliot. 
Francis Parkman, Jr. I 


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THREE HUNDRED AND TEN TITLES. 
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Data of Ethics. By Herbert Spen- 
C6r. 

Daughter of an Empress, The. 

By Louisa Muhlbach. 

Daughter of Heth, A. By William 

David Copperfield. By Charles 
Dickens. 

deemster, The. By Hall Caine. 

Deerslayer, The. By James Feni- 
more Cooper 

Descent of Man. By Charles Dar- 
win. 

Discourses of Epictetus. Trans- 
lated by Georgje Long. 

Divine Comedy, The. (Dante.) 

Translated by Cary. 

Dombey & Son. By Charles Dickens. 

Donal Grant. By George Macdonald. 

Donald Ross of Heimra. By Wm. 
Black. 

Donovan. By Edna Lyall- 
Dream Life. By Ik Marvel. 

Duty. By Samuel Smiles. 

East Lynne. By Mrs. Henry Wood. 
Egoist, The. By George Merediv^h. 

Egyptian Princess, An. By Geo. 

Fibers. 

Emerson’s Essays. (Complete.) By 
R. W. Emerson. 

Emperor, The. By George Ebers. 
Essays of Elia. By Charles Lamb. 
Esther. By Rosa N. Carey. 
Executor, The. By Mrs. Alexander. 

Far from the Madding Crowd. 

By Thomas Hardy. 

Faust. (Goethe.) Translated by Anna 
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Felix Holt. By George Eliot. 

Fifteen Decisive Battles of the 
World. By Creasy. 

File No. 113. By Emile Gaboriau. 

Firm of Girdlestone. By A. Conan 
Doyle. 

First Principles. By Herbert Spen- 
cer. 

First Violin. By Jessie Fothergill. 

Vor Faith and Freedom. By Wal- 
ter Besant. 


Frederick the Great and His 
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French Revolution. By Thomas 
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From the Earth to the Moon. By 

Jules Verne. 

Goethe and Schiller. By Louisa 
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Gold Bug, The, and Other Tales. 

By Edgar A. Poe. 

Gold Elsie. By E. Marlitt. 

Good Luck. By E. Werner. 

Great Expectations. By Charles 

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Great Treason, A. By Mary Hop- 
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Green Mountain Boys, The. By 
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Hardy Norseman, A. By Edna 
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Harry Lorrequer. By Chas. Lever. 

Heir of Redclyffe. By Charlotte 
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Henry Esmond. By William M. 
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Heriot’s Choice. By Rosa N. Carey. 

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History of a Crime. By Victor 
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History of Civilization in Europe 

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House of the Seven Gables. By 
Nathaniel Hawthorne. 

House of the Wolf. By Stanley 
Weyman. 

How to be Happy Though Mar- 
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Hunchback of Notre Dame. By 

Victor Hugo. 

Hypatia. By Charles Kingsley. 


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Life of Christ. By Frederic W. 

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Little Dorrit. By Ch..rles Dickens. 

Longfellow’s Poems. CEarly.) 

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Martin Chuzzlewit. By Charles 
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Mary Anerley. By R. D. Black- 

more. 

Mary St. John. By Rosa N. Carey. 

Master of Ballantrae, The. By R. 

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Master of the Ceremonies, The. 

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Masterman Ready. By Captain 
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Meditations of Marcus Aurelius. 

Translated by Long. 

Merle’s Crusade . By Rosa N. Carey. 

Micah Clarke. By A. Conan Doyle. 

Michael StrogofF. By Jules Verne. 

Middlemarch. By George Eliot. 

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Mill on the Floss. By George Eliot. 

Molly Bawn. By “ The Duchess.” 

Moonstone, The. By Wilkie Collins. 

Mosses from an Old Manse. By 
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Natural Law in the Spiritual 
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Romola. By George Eliot. 

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Schonberg-Cotta Family. By Mrs. 

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Search for Basil Lyndhurst. By 

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Second Wife, The. By E. Marhtt . 

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Study in Scarlet, A. By A. Conan 
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Swiss Family Robinson. By Jean 
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Tale of Two Cities. By Charles 
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Tales from Shakespeare. By Chas. 
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Tempest Tossed. By Theodore Til- 
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Toilers of the Sea. By Victor Hugo. 

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What’s Mine’s Mine. By George 

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A World of Girls: The Story of a School. 

By L. T. Meade. Illustrated. Price |l.00. 

The Heir of Redclyffe. By Charlotte M. Yonge. Ulus. Price $1.00. 
The Story of a Short Life. By Juliana Horatia Ewing. Illustrated. 
Price $1.00. 

A Sweet Girl Graduate. By L. T. Meade. Illustrated. Price $1.00. 
Our Bessie. By Rosa Nouchette Carey. Illustrated. Price $1.00. 

Six to Sixteen: A Story for Girls. By Juliana Horatia Ewing. Il- 
lustrated. Price $1.00. 

The Dove in the Eagle’s Nest. By Charlotte M. Yonge. Illustrated. 
Price $1.00. 

Gianetta; A Girl’s Story of Herself. By Rosa Mulholland. Illus- 
trated. Price $1.00. 

Jan of the Windmill: A Story of the Plains. By Juliana Horatia 
Ewing. Illustrated. Pi’ice$1.00. 

Averil. By Rosa Nouchette Carey. Illustrated. Price $1.00. 

Alice in Wonderland and Alice Through the Looking-Glass. Two 
volumes in one. By Lewis Carroll. Illustrated. Price $1.00. 

Merle’s Crusade. By Rosa Nouchette Carey. Illustrated. Price $1.00. 
Girl Neighbors; or, The Old Fashion and the New. By Sarah 
Tytler. Illustrated. Price $1.00. 

Polly: A New Fashioned Girl. By L. T. Meade. Ulus. Price $1.00. 
Aunt Diana. By Rosa N. Carey. Illustrated. Price $1.00. 

The Water Babies; A Fairy Tale for a Land-Baby. By Charles 
Kingsley. Illustrated. Price $1.00. 

At the Back of the North Wind. By George Macdonald. Illustrated. 
Price $1.00. 

The Chaplet of Pearls; or, The White and Black Ribaumont. By 
Charlotte M. Yonge. Illustrated. Price $1.00. 

The Days of Bruce: A Story of Scottish History. By Grace Agui- 
lar. Illustrated. Price $1.00. 

The Palace Beautiful: A Story for Girls. By L. T. Meade. Illus- 
trated. Price $1.00. 

Margery Merton’s Girlhood. By Alice Corkran. Ulus. Price $1.00. 
Three Bright Girls: A Story of Chance and Mischance. By Annie 
E. Arm.strong. Illustrated. Price $1.00. 

Pythia’s Pupils: The Story of a School. By Eva Hartner. Illus- 
trated. Price $1 .00. 

The Lady of the Forest: A Story for Girls. By L. T. Meade. Illus- 
trated. Piice$1.00. 

Only a Girl: A Tale of Brittany. By C. A. Jones. I lus. Price $1.00. 
Honor Bright; or, The Four-Leaved Shamrock. By the author of 
Miss Toosey's Mission, lllustr.ited. Pne.$1.00. 

Under False Colors: A Story from Two Girls’ Lives. By Sarah 
Doudney. Illustrated. Price $1.00. 


For Hale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price 
by the publisher, A. L, BUBT, 07 Iteade Street, New York, 



THE “LITTLE WOMEN” SERIES. 


Uniform Cloth Binding. 

Profusely Illustrated. 

A series of most delightful stories for young girls. 
Selected from the best-known writers for children. 
These stories are narrated in a simple and lively 
fashion and cannot but prove Irresistible with the 
little ones, while throughout the volumes there is a 
comprehension of and sympathy with child thought 
and feeling that is almost as rare out of books as in. 
These stories are sunny, interesting, and thoroughly 
winsome and wholesome. 



Adventures of a Brownie, As Told to My Child. By Miss Mulock. 
Illustrated. Price 75 cents. 

Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. By Lewis Carroll. With 43 
Illustrations by John Tenniel. Price 75 cents. 

Birdie. A Tale of Child Life. By H. L. Childe- Pemberton. Illustrated. 
Price 5 cents. 

Count Up the Sunny Days. A Story for Girls. By C. A. Jones. Ulus- 
trated. Price 75 cents. 

Cuckoo Clock, The. By Mrs. Molesworth. With 7 Illustrations by 
Walter Crane. Price 75 cents. 

Down the Snow Stairs; or. From Good Night to Good Morning. By 
Alice Corkran. With 60 Illustrations by Gordon Browne. Price 75c. 

Joan’s Adventures. At the North Pole and Elsewhere. Bj' Alice 
Corkran. Illustrated. Price 75 cents. 

Little Lame Prince, and His Traveling Cloak. By Miss Mulock. Illus- 
trated. Price 75 cents. 

Little Miss Joy. By Emma Marshall. Illustrated. Price 75 cents. 

Little Miss Peggy. Only a Nursery Story. By Mrs. Molesworth. With 
13 Illustrations by Walter Crane. Price 75 cents. 

Little Princess of Tower Hill. By L. T. Meade. Illustrated. Price 
75 cents. 

Little Sunshine’s Holiday. A Picture from Life. By Miss Mulock 
Illustrated. Price 75 cents. 

Little Lucy’s Wonderful Globe. By Charlotte M. Yonge. Illus- 
trated. Price 75 cents. 

Little Rosebud: or. Things Will Take a Turn. By Beatrice Harraden 
Illustrated. Price 75 cents. 

One of a Covey. By the author of “ Honor Bright.” With 19 Illustra 
tions by H. J. A. 5liles. Price 75 cents. 

Rosy. By Mrs. Molesworth. With 8 Illustrations by Walter Crane. 
Price 75 cents. 

Sweet Content. By Mrs. Molesworth. With 20 Illustrations by W 
Rainey. Price 75 cents. 

Sue and I. By Mrs. Robert O’Reilly. Illustrated. Price 75 cents. 

Tapestry Room, The. By Mrs. Molesworth. Illustrated. Price 75 cts. 

Through the Looking-Glass, and What Alice Found There. By Lewis 
Carroll. With 50 Illustrations by John Tenniel. Price 75 cents. 


jFor sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price 
by the publisher, A. i, BTJltT, 97 Beade Street, New York, 


A. L. BURT’S PUBLICATIONS 

For Young People 

BY POPULAR WRITERS, 

97-99-101 Reade Street, New York. 


Bonnie Prince Charlie : A Tale of Fontenoy and Culloden. By 
G. A. Henty, With 12 full-page Illustrations by Gordon 
Browne. 12mo, cloth, price |1.00. 

The adventures of the son of a Scotch officer in French service. 
The boy, brought up by a Glasgow bailie, is arrested for aiding a 
Jacobite agent, escapes, is wrecked on the French coast, reaches 
Paris, and serves with the French army at Dettingen. He kills 
his father’s foe in a duel, and escaping to the coast, shares the 
udventures of Prince Charlie, but finally settles happily in Scot- 
land. 

“Ronald, the hero, is very like the hero of ‘ Quentin Durward.’ The lad’s 
journey across France, and his hairbreadth escapes, make up as good a nar- 
rative of the kind as we have ever read. For freshness of treatment and 
variety of incident Mr. Henty has surpassed himself.’’— Spectator. 

With Clive in India ; or, the Beginnings of an Empire. By 
G. A. Henty. With 12 full-page Illustrations by Gordon 
Browne. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. 

The period between the landing of Clive as a young writer in 
India and the close of his career was critical and eventful in the 
extreme. At its commencement the English were traders existing 
on sufferance of the native princes. At its close they were masters 
of Bengal and of the greater part of Southern India. The author 
has given a full and accurate account of the events of that stirring 
time, and battles and sieges follow each other in rapid succession, 
while he combines with his narrative a tale of daring and adven- 
ture, which gives a lifelike interest co the volume. 

“ He has taken a period of Indian history of the most vital importance, 
and he has embroidered on the historical facts a story which of itself is deeply 
interesting. Young people assuredly will be delighted with the volume.’’— 
Scotsman. 

The Lion of the North : A Tale of Gustavus Adolphus and the 
Wars of Religion. By G. A. Henty. With full-page Illus- 
trations by John SchcInberg. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. 

In this story Mr. Henty gives the history of the first part of the 
Thirty Years’ War. The issue had its importance, which has ex- 
tended to the present day, as it established religious freedom 
in Germany. The. army of the chivalrous king of Sweden was 
largely composed of Scotchmen, and among these was the hero of 
ffie story. 

“ The tale is a clever and instructive piece of history, and as boys may be 
trusted to read it conscientiously, they can hardly fail to be profited.’’— Times. 


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at. 9/^0. 

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A. L. BURT’S PUBLICATIONS. /^)^5 

— 

The Dragon and the Raven; or, The Days of King Alfred. By 

G. A. Henty. With full-page Illustrations by C. J. Stani- 

LAND, R.I. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. 

In this story the author gives an account of the fierce struggle 
between Saxon and Dane for supremacy in England, and presents 
a vivid picture of the misery and ruin to which the country was 
reduced by the ravages of the sea-wolves. The hero, a young 
Saxon thane, takes part in all the battles fought by King Alfred. 
He is driven from his home, takes to the sea and resists the Danes 
on their own element, and being pursued by them up the Seine, 
is present at the long and desperate siege of Paris. 

“ Treated in a manner most attractive to the boyish reader.” — AthencBum. 

The Young Carthaginian : A Story of the Times of Hannibal. 

By G. A. Henty. With full-page Illustrations byC. J. Stani- 

LAND, R.I. . 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. 

Boys reading the history of the Punic Wars have seldom a keen 
appreciation of the merits of the contest. That it was at first a 
struggle for empire, and afterward for existence on the part of 
Carthage, that Hannibal was a great and skillful general, that he 
defeated the Romans at Trebia, Lake Trasimenus, and Cannae, 
and all but took R )me, represents pretty nearly the sum total of 
their knowledge. To let them know more about this momentous 
struggle for the empire of the world Mr. Henty has written this 
story, which not only gives in graphic style a brilliant descrip- 
tion of a most interesting period of history, but is a tale of ex- 
citing adventure sure to secure the interest of the reader. 

“ Well constructed and vividly told. From first to last nothing stays the 
interest of the narrative. It bears us along as on a jstream whose current 
varies in direction, but never loses its force. "Saturday Review. 

In Freedom’s Cause : A Story of Wallace and Bruce. ByG. A. 

Henty. With full-page Illustrations by Gordon Browne. 

12mo, cloth, price $1.00. 

In this story the author relates the stirring tale of the Scottish 
War of Independence. The extraordinary valor and personal 
prowess of Wallace and Bruce rival the deeds of the mythical 
heroes of chivalry, and indeed at one time Wallace was ranked 
with these legendary personages. The researches of modern 
historians have shown, however, that he was a living, breathing 
man — and a valiant champion. The hero of the tale fought under 
both Wallace and Bruce, and while the strictest historical accuracy 
has been maintained with respect to public events, the work is 
full of “hairbreadth ’scapes” and wild adventure. 

“ It is written in the author’s best style. Full of the wildest and most re 
markable achievements, it is a tale of great interest, which a boy, once he has 
begun it. will not willingly put on one side.”— TTie Schoolmaster- 


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